


Fate is Nothing

by sunryder



Category: NCIS
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ancient Egypt, Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Robin Hood, M/M, Reincarnation, all of the universes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-04 05:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1767385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunryder/pseuds/sunryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fate is nothing but the deeds committed in a prior state of existence.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson</p><p>This story is one continuous plot, set in five different times, with five variations on the usual NCIS team dynamic. And, most importantly, variations on the Tony/Gibbs dynamic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ancient Egypt

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this on ff.net years ago and am now transferring it over here with minor edits. I believe this is what you would call ‘highly experimental’. I wrote this after watching an interview with JJ Abrams (Lost/Star Trek) where he basically said if your characters and their relationships are believable, they’ll be believable no matter where you set them.
> 
> Enter the Muse.
> 
> This story is one continuous plot, set in five different times, with five variations on the usual NCIS team dynamic. And, most importantly, variations on the Tony/Gibbs dynamic. Considering one of the great things about this pairing is that their relationship can believably change from one episode/story to the next, I tried to capture some of that mutability. Now buckle up, and lets see if this makes any kind of sense.

**AN:** All my Egyptian history comes from the  _Mummy_ movies and Stargate's Daniel Jackson, so don't get too upset about that. 

* * *

 

_“Fate is nothing but the deeds committed in a prior state of existence.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson_

 

* * *

 

 

Antony came barreling around the corner, sprinting down the mud brick hall to be just barely on time to answer the summons from the High Priestess. The boy wrapped his belt around his rumpled tunic and ran a soothing hand over his sweat-soaked hair, trying to tame them both before entering the public domain. He silently wished that the gods had planned this latest does of trouble for some time that wasn’t his early morning rendezvous.

Because, other than the disdainfully delivered orders from one of his fellow Medjai, Antony’s morning had been practically perfect.

He’d woken early from a night of deep sleep, neither tormented by nightmares of his past, nor of his uncertain future. He’d made his way in the pale light of dawn to his appointment with Ziva—one of the new priestesses-in-training—and together they’d whiled away the morning with conversations dappled in between her ‘tests’ of his skill as a Medjai’s apprentice. Mainly that meant letting her thrash him as she fought through her own battered emotions, but the bruises were entirely worth it. Antony knew full well what it was like to pick up the pieces of your life and come to the temple to start over.

And if everyone who saw his disheveled state took it for something else, then he was fine with the gossip that was to come.

Jethro was waiting for Antony outside High Priestess Katelyn’s office, stalwartly examining the grain of the door before him and ignoring the echo of his second’s rushing feet coming up from behind. Those gossips that Antony was so keen to incite had already made their way to Jethro this morning.

A few years ago Jethro had come across a temple to Hathor in one of his many travels for Pharaoh, and there he’d found Antony lashed to a pole in the courtyard, with whip slices dripping blood down his back. The boy had been punished for stopping one of the priests from raping a village girl and fighting with the man just long enough to give the girl time to get away. Antony had been beaten for his insolence (which, one very drunken conversation later, Antony had admitted was the first time he remembered being touched by human hands). Antony was the bastard child of one of the temple priests and the village harlot, and they kept him around as the temple’s punishment for ever forgetting their path.

And that’s where Jethro had discovered him, hunched over and begging the gods to just let him die after twelve years of abject neglect. And Jethro couldn’t make himself leave the boy.

Had Jethro been any less than Pharaoh’s favorite Medjai, he probably would’ve been executed for the impertinence of taking a slave from a temple and threatening to behead anyone who tried to stop him. But as usual, Donald let him get away with it. Given his history, Jethro couldn’t quite blame Antony for taking now all the pleasure in touch that he’d lacked during his youth. And the one time Katelyn had legitimately tried to be rid of Antony and his cuckolding ways—despite the utter lack of protest from anyone Antony had ever bedded—Jethro had declared his boy his heir, and there was no getting around that.  

Antony skidded to a stop beside Jethro, braced for the scolding of his life, and was oddly disappointed when Jethro didn’t say a word. Before Antony had the chance to do anything else disrespectful to get a rise out of Jethro, the great wooden doors to the inner sanctum of High Priestess Katelyn swung open and Jethro strode in.

‘Damn.’ was all Antony could think. It seemed that his punishment this time was going to be Jethro ignoring him, which really, Jethro should’ve known was just going to blow up in his face. Antony didn’t like being ignored; being ignored meant he was going to do something incredibly stupid to get Jethro’s attention right back on him where it belonged.

Not that Antony was excessively territorial over Jethro or anything, other than that he, well, really, really was. Jethro was his hero, his savior, his family, and the only thing he really had in the world, and he didn’t particularly like it when the High Priestess got that glint in her eye that said she thought Jethro would be better served by choosing his apprentice from one of the many, _many_ appropriate young men she’d recommended to him over the years.

Tony didn’t want to be replaced, no matter how perfect and not at all psychologically damaged those young men might be. Jethro was his only kin, his father and best friend. Sure, there were plenty of practically perfect little Medjai who salivated at the thought of being trained by Jethro, but no one, _no one_ could be a more perfect match.

Whatever Tony was expecting when he stepped into large room that functioned as Katelyn’s office, a body was not on the list. Laid out in repose on a table usually reserved for documents was the bloated and blue body of a young man.

The boy had to be a few years younger than Antony, and the stark paleness of his body was a painful contrast with the dark wood of the table he was spread out on. His robes were the dark green of life, and the irony was not lost on Antony. He supposed there should be something morose about seeing the husk of a fellow so close to his own age, but there had been too many bodies in his short life for one more to inspire the sense of loss that some part of him knew he should be feeling.

“What happened?” He asked. The passive calm in Antony’s voice startled Katelyn, but she wasn’t to be outdone. She replied with a compassionate disinterest, “The body was found about an hour ago in one of the sacred ponds.”

“Why did you move him?” Jethro snapped.

Katelyn stuck her chin out, mightily affronted that Jethro dared to sound so irritated with her. “Because he’s a priest in training, Jethro. He deserved to have his body tended to, not left in disgrace where he was murdered.” Her tone was tense and chiding, but Jethro ignored it.

“What makes you think he was murdered?”

Katelyn stalwartly ignored how Antony was not paying any attention to her view on the matter while he made a circle around the body, and instead answered Jethro. “Because the spirits testified it to me, and they are never wrong.”

Jethro used all his will to constrain his snort of disbelief, but it wasn’t enough to stop his raised eyebrow. As grace personified, Katelyn refrained from stomping her foot like a petulant child—as she was always tempted to do when Jethro spoke to her like she was a fool—and merely looked down her nose at him for not heeding her counsel. Antony’s declaration of, “She’s right, Boss,” from beside the body was the only thing capable of breaking the violent staring match.

Katelyn looked triumphant, but Jethro ignored her to turn his focus to Antony. “What do we have?”

“He’s got a dent on the back of his head, but there wouldn’t be rocks in a sacred pool for him to bash against if he fell. It’s probably from someone knocking him unconscious. We should check around the pool, see if there are any bloody stones, or scuff marks from a body being dragged in.”

“You think he was alive when he went in the water?”

Antony puckered his nose in distaste and leaned away from the body. “Yeah.”

Jethro nodded and turned to Katelyn, gesturing to her to lead the way to the pond where the body was found. When Antony stepped behind to follow in his usual place, Jethro waived him off and said, “Go talk to Timothy”

“But, Boss—”

“ _Go_  Antony.” Jethro turned away too quickly to see the flare of hurt in Antony’s eyes caused by the rejection. Katelyn waited until Jethro’s back was turned then looked to Antony with an unseemly glee that Jethro had chosen her company over his. For such a typically gentle and compassionate woman, the mere sight of Antony raised something vile in her behavior that she didn’t quite care to admit.

Antony slunk off to pester Timothy, Pharaoh Donald’s only son, and Antony’s best friend. He made his way through the city almost mindlessly, not noticing the ‘come hither’ looks that many citizens sent his way. By the time he made it to Timothy’s apartment, he had already grown a long list of people irritated with him for not having the common courtesy to at least flirt. Jethro may have disapproved of Antony’s fondness for flirting, but he didn’t seem to realize how it benefitted them when they were carrying out their duties.

Antony walked in to Timothy’s rooms unannounced and flopped down on the couch beside Timothy’s favorite reading chair (the couch having been placed there specifically to accommodate Antony’s ever-lengthening frame when they were younger). The various servants scampering around the chambers didn’t wait for Timothy’s signal, they simply scattered at Antony’s unnatural state of quiet. An Antony who wasn’t complementing them on the flowers, or asking after their children was an Antony to be avoided.

“So... how are you?” Timothy asked tentatively.

Antony gave an exaggerated roll of his head around to stare at Timothy, clearly commenting that this was a stupid question. “That good, huh?” Antony flopped back on the couch, turning his gaze to some far off point on the wall, ignoring the questioning glance Timothy sent him. Timothy had heard the servants gossiping about the sweaty, breathless state Antony had been in when he met Jethro that morning, and Timothy could easily make the assumption about why Antony was in a funk.

Though as always, the only thing Timothy could really think when Jethro and Antony had a spat over his sleeping habits was, “Why do you do it?”

His friend tucked his arms behind his head, spread his legs just a little more than was decent, and looked every inch the walking sex act that the more traditional among them accused him of being. He gave a jaunty grin. “Why does anyone do anything, Tim?”

Timothy just put his hands on his hips and stuck out his chin, putting on his best ‘I am to be Pharaoh’ face to demand that Antony give a decent answer. Antony stuck to his nonchalant pose. “What, Tim? It’s the truth!”

Timothy just sighed and plopped down on the end of the couch, looking at Antony with wide, sad eyes. “I just want to understand, Tony. I don’t care what your reason is, I just want to understand it. You’re my friend, my  _best_ friend. Someday you’re going to be Jethro, and I’ll be my father, and I want to know you like my father knows him.”

Tony snorted and jumped from his seat. “No one  _knows_  Jethro. He keeps everything to himself.”

Tim furrowed his brow, “But you always tell the other Medjai-in-training that you know him well...”

“That’s because the only person living who knows him better than me is your father. I know him well, but only by comparison.”

“And you wish he’d open up to you more?”

Tony shrugged out, “It’s just, he’s  _Jethro_ , you know?” To Tony, repeating the name in that tone and with emphatic hand gestures was enough to communicate his meaning, but Tim was still learning. Tim ‘Ummed’ for a moment and then shook his head.

Antony bit back the urge to sigh at Tim, knowing that his best friend was just doing his best with the exceptionally proper upbringing he’d been given. (An upbringing where excessive gesturing was frowned upon.) Tony rubbed his temples then snapped his head back up and continued. “Ok, here. This might explain it. When I first got here, Katelyn told me how she believed that the gods killed Jethro’s family. Not as a punishment for anything, but because he was too perfect a Medjai. They needed him too much, and taking away his wife and daughter was the only way they could make him what they needed.

“He’s a legend, Tim, and he waltzed in and saved me when all I wanted to do was die. He’s seen me at my absolute worst. But he… he doesn’t have a worst! He’s always right, always accomplishes his task, and never seems to be stressed by any of it!”

“So, you act out because you think Jethro’s perfect?”

Sweet Tim sounded so confused that Tony could help but try to explain again. He bounced up and paced back and forth, like the movement might give him the words. “I’ll never be him, Tim. I’ll never be the Medjai that people whisper about as the best there ever was. When Jethro brought me here, before I’d even had the chance to do anything wrong, I got gossiped about. And then they told me I wasn’t worthy of being the one he trained. Rather than break myself trying to be just as good as he is, I decided to become less. Like, if I wasn’t really trying it wouldn’t hurt when I failed.”

“But why not act out some other way?”

“Because at least this way someone cares. They tell me I’m good at sex, and get excited to see me. And it’s not nearly as many people as you think, Timothy. With the women, it’s actually mostly just talking. Like this morning! I was with Ziva—”

“That new priestess Jethro has taken a shine to?”

The briefest flicker of pain flickered across Antony’s face, but he continued, “Yeah, her. Jethro asked me to make nice, so we’ve been talking. She’d been telling me all about how she misses home, and how great Jethro is for looking after her.”

Timothy hesitated just a moment before asking, “And that doesn’t bother you?”

Antony just grinned, “Contrary to popular belief, I do  _try_  and like people who like him.”

“I know Antony, it’s just… do you still worry that you’ll get replaced?”

Antony dropped back to his spot on the couch, looking every inch his eighteen years rather than the twenty-something he usually pretended, and muttered, “Every single day.”

Tim knew Tony  _was_ right, partially.

Most days Jethro was closer to myth than human, and the other Medjai didn’t quite grasp why he thought Tony was worth spending his time and energy on. Jethro thought they were all idiots with no vision, but Tony had always secretly agreed with them. Timothy didn’t pretend to really understand how the two men worked, but despite all odds they seemed to match perfectly, night and day, like two halves of the same whole.

At least, that’s how Tim’s father put it. One night they’d puttered around the garden, examining each of the flowers when Timothy had asked Donald about Jethro and Antony. “They’re bound up together my lad, two lives sharing one fate. They are meant to walk together through life. Just, uh, don’t mention that to Jethro, he’s liable to shout at you. He hates feeling enthralled to fate.”

Timothy hadn’t needed the extra advice, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Papa, when you mean together, do you mean,  _together_?”

Donald chuckled to himself, knowing that his son’s ever-growing interest in sex was directly the result of his dealings with Antony, so of course that would be the first question he asked. “What path their togetherness takes shall be of their own choosing, my boy. Love has many forms.” His father had then proceeded to tell a story about the Queen of Sheba, but Timothy wasn’t truly paying attention, too wrapped up in the looks he knew his best friend sent Jethro when he thought no one was watching.

Knowing his father’s gift for observation Timothy then asked, “Do you every think Antony will trust that Jethro won’t just be rid of him?”

Donald chortled, “Jethro must be rid of the idea himself, first.”

Timothy stopped their walk mid-stride with horror in his eyes, “Jethro wants to send Antony away?”

“No, no, no.” Donald gave a comforting squeeze to Timothy’s shoulder, “But he’s yet to realize that the best thing for Antony is to stay just where he is. Jethro must figure that out first, and then the lot will fall to Antony to be the one to trust, and that will not happen until the moment he _could_ walk away.”

Timothy furrowed his brow in confusion, “But Jethro could always walk away.”

“Not Jethro, my boy, Antony. Once Jethro has no bonds of debt or duty, giving Antony the chance to walk away and stand on his own, and then Jethro  _doesn’t leave_ , then Antony will know Jethro is here to stay. But not before.”

Timothy kept this conversation to himself, but recalled it in all its enlightening detail as Antony sprawled morbidly on his sofa. Timothy had no counsel to offer that would do his best friend any good, but he desperately hoped his father wasn’t wrong where their fate was concerned. To spend the rest of his life in doubt over Jethro’s affection would destroy Antony rather than make him whole.

 

XXXXX

 

Jethro and Katelyn’s walk through the temple to the site of the murder was fraught with silence. Katelyn was riding too high from the perceived slight to Antony to notice that the telling furrow in between Jethro’s eyebrows had appeared the moment Antony had been left, and not upon seeing the body. But there was one thing she noticed that did bother her. “Jethro, how did Antony know to check the priest’s head?”

He grunted back, “Because he’s seen murders before.”

“In his time following you around?” And though she tried, she really did, Katelyn couldn’t help the derision that snuck into her tone. Jethro shot her a look for that that either said, ‘Duh,’ or ‘He’s not a damn puppy. He  _helps_ me.’ (Probably the latter, but though Katelyn was decent at speaking Jethro’s silent language, she wasn’t  _good_  at it by any stretch of the imagination.) What Jethro actually said aloud was, “And before.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s not just a pretty face, Kate.”

“I certainly hope not. He’s not all that pretty.” Jethro cocked an eyebrow, not believing her denial for a second.

“He’s good with people.”

“So I’ve heard,” she giggled. Jethro gave her a glare with the full force of his irritation. “Oh Jethro, you know I didn’t really mean it.” But she was still smiling.

Usually she was a good friend to Jethro, but he couldn’t trust her with his concerns about Antony today, since she’d just proved herself to be in an unreliable mood. She didn’t need to know that Jethro had noticed with a wrenching in his infallible gut that the dead priest was the spitting imaging of Antony. Nor should she know that Jethro didn’t want that realization to dawn on Antony in Katelyn’s presence.

She also didn’t need to know that in trying to keep Antony safe, Jethro had gone and done him harm with the rejection. Some days Jethro worried that he’d taken Antony from his life of neglect only to plant him in an entirely different form of abuse.

The gods had seen fit to rob him of his pregnant wife and unborn child, only to give him a second chance at family, and he couldn’t help but wonder why they’d go to all the trouble just so he could muck things up so spectacularly once again. He failed in trying to convince Antony for years that he’d keep him, no matter what anyone else said, and now he failed in his ever more wretched attempts to fight the way he wanted the boy.

Antony loved him like a father, but every time Antony found his solace in someone else’s bed and then came stumbling back to Jethro, sated and loose, he couldn’t help the feral stab of jealousy that clenched his heart. On his worst days, Jethro wondered if he should turn Antony over to some family far away from the capital and let him live a normal life. One where the only person in this world that he thought of as family didn’t have the ever-growing urge to taste him.

Jethro tucked his worries off to the side when he and Katelyn made it to the scene of the crime. He scanned the area, found no scuff marks on the ground, but saw flecks of blood that must’ve splattered from the head wound. Ironically, Katelyn just trailed behind Jethro around the scene contributing nothing, just what she’d accused Tony of doing. “There’s no murder weapon,” he murmured, talking more out of the habit of always having Antony near than any desire to inform Katelen. “He must’ve been hit here, standing next to the pool, then caught and tossed in before he hit the ground. But why…” Jethro stepped back from the pool, trying to get a wider vision of the murder.

Drowning was an ugly death, and there was no reason for the murderer to render the priest unconscious and then dump him in the water and hope that he drowned. There were no bruises on the boy’s chest to suggest that he’d been held down under the water, despite the risk that the will to live might’ve woken him before he was dead.

With his back pressed to the courtyard’s wall, Jethro finally saw it: the ankh.

The image was scuffed into the dirt on the far side of the yard, which is why none of them had noticed the marks. The pond stood in for the circular handle of the sigil, with the perpendicular, intersecting lines that completed it scratched out into the dirt. Which meant that the dead body of a priest was floating above the ankh, the symbol of the god’s eternal life… and everything about this made Jethro’s gut scream.

“Where’s the wintess?” Jethro demanded. Katelyn tried to remind him that the girl had only found the body, but he was not in the mood. The girl was tucked away in a small chamber just down the hall, being fussed over by a priestess who helped prepare the dead.

Upon seeing Jethro, the bright-eyed girl burst up and dashed into his arms, unleashing a whole new string of sobs into his chest. “H-he said there’d be more!”

“He who?” Jethro dropped to his knees to look her in the eye.

“The man!”

Jethro ran a comforting hand over her hair, fixing Katelyn with a glare until she mouthed the girl’s name to him. “Abigail, I don’t understand. What man?”

“The man who said he killed the priest! H-He said there’d be more!”

Jethro looked over the girl’s head and mouthed to Katelyn, ‘Get me Antony and the Medjai.’ To the girl he asked, “The man found you here in the temple?”

“Y-Yes. I walked through the courtyard and saw the body. And he grabbed me and told me to tell you, ‘They’re all just practice, Jethro. Practice for the real thing.’ But I don’t know what that means!” He cradled the girl close, trying to soothe her while his own soul erupted in panic.

Whoever this murderer was, he was playing with Jethro, and he was using Anthony to do it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, this chapter is totally a bastardization of the Kevin Costner version of Robin Hood. I love that movie. Don’t judge me.

Jethro dashed through the camp at a quick walk, trying not arouse too much suspicion while still making note that Ziva had done as he asked and lured the children away from the main camp to have a swim in the river. Once again, Jethro thanked his lucky stars that he’d happened across the warrior hidden inside that slight woman’s body while on his crusade, and that somehow he’d had the foresight to adopt her into his clan. The more time she spent with his people here in the forest, the more he couldn’t imagine life without her. (Though he made a mental note to be on the lookout for the Pied Piper comments that were sure to come her way once the parents realized she’d taken the children to the river.)

He’d spent all of yesterday in interviews with potential witnesses and calming nervous villagers, trying to find anyone who knew something about the boy they’d found drowned in the river yesterday. Thankfully, no one but the young girl who’d found the body had seen the strange cross marked into the dirt where the body had been pulled up onto the bank. Jethro couldn’t imagine the kind of chaos he’d have on his hands if people thought there was a witch running around the forest, killing people atop a maligned cross. After a whole day of questions all Jethro had was the young girl and her determination that a ‘scary man’ had told her he was just practicing. Jethro spared a moment or two to devoutly wish that the murderer would just make himself known and spare them all the trouble of delaying Jethro’s chance to put a sword through the bastard’s heart.

An already irate Jethro woke up that morning the news that another body had been found, and now he tossed back the blanket covering the entrance to one of the larger huts in his woodland village and demanded, “Whatcha got for me, Duck?

Ducky looked up from the crushed body laid out before him on a woven rug and glared. “Jethro my dear boy, how many times must I remind you, I’m a Priest, not a doctor? And in all honesty, no matter what my capacity, you should be calling me Father Mallard, not ‘Duck’.”

Jethro ignored Ducky’s rant born of frustration and hunched down beside the body of the young man, noting the brown hair matted with blood and how, despite the unprecedented rockslide that seemed to have brutally claimed his life, the boy’s face was untouched. Jethro looked up from his examination and noticed the worn lines around his old friend’s eyes, and the depth of sorrow in them. He rested a hand on Ducky’s shoulder. “I’m sorry you had to do this again, Father. I know that death is one of the parts of your job that you hate the most, and Lord knows you’ve seen far too much of it since I dragged you out of your library and into the company of outlaws here in the Greenwood. And for that, I’m sorry. But I still have to ask you to be the one, you’re the only person in this camp with a mind to figure out what happened to him.”

Ducky merely sighed and looked back down at the broken body lying between them. “I’d guess the lad was no more than twenty. I’ve never seen him before, and as to why he was out in these woods all alone, I haven’t a clue.”

Jethro squeezed Ducky’s shoulder and consoled, “You don’t worry about that part, Duck. I’ll take care of finding his family, I just need to know if this was a freak rock slide, or if Ziva’s right, and it was planned.”

“Planned? Good heavens Jet, you think this boy was murdered?”

“That depends on what you’ve got to tell me, Ducky.”

The good Father drew a deep sigh, then steeled his nerves, striving—as he always did—to be as much use to Jethro as possible. “There are marks on his wrists and his ankles that look like rope burn, Jet. I’d say the lad was tied at some point before he died, and considering how the burns don’t look like they had any real chance to heal, I’d say it was directly before. But I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you. The lad is far too mangled for me to tell if he was struck by anything before he was actually crushed by the rocks.”

Ducky watched Jethro’s gaze sweep over the whole body, taking in details that Ducky was almost sure he’d missed, but somehow Jet always managed to pick up on. He saw the set of his shoulders, and the furrow of his brow, and Ducky knew in an instant that Jet didn’t believe this was any sort of accident. “The boy was murdered, wasn’t he?”

“Yup.”

“But Jethro, what makes you think that? There was a violent storm last night, perhaps the boy just got lost in the forest?”

“Makes you wonder why any sane person would be roaming around Sherwood Forest in the dead of night with a storm brewing, Duck.”

“Perhaps he was chased?”

“Maybe. But that doesn’t explain the rope burn, or why no one’s been in the forest looking for him, or why Ziva found what looks the be the broken pieces of a way to start all those rocks down the hill.”

Ducky sighed, then morosely added, “I was hoping this wouldn’t turn out to matter, but this boy has green eyes as well.”

“I figured, Duck. Which makes me wonder why someone would want to murder two boys with brown hair and green eyes.”

“You don’t think this has anything to do with our guest, do you?”

Jethro snorted, “That boy would be too nervous about getting his boots muddy to kill anybody in a rainstorm, Duck.” Father Mallard didn’t think Jethro was in the sort of mood where it would do any good to mention that he’d been concerned for young Anthony’s safety, and not his status as a murderer.

XXXXXXX

The ‘guest’ in question, as Ducky had so politely referred to him, was Anthony of Aquitaine, a cousin to the wilting little whelp of a lad that Jethro’s daughter had gone and fallen in love with. The fiancée, Timothy, had never been denied anything in his life, so the moment he irrationally announced that he wanted to marry the only living child of the outlaw known better as ‘The Wolf,’ his parent’s only response had been to send him off with his favorite cousin to negotiate a dowry.

The moment the frilly cousin had stepped into their camp hidden amongst the trees, his eyes widened in disdainful disbelief, and he kept sputtering about how ‘he couldn’t believe this was possible.’ Most of the citizens had taken that as the first of many in a string of compliments, and then gotten themselves all wrapped up in Anthony’s gushing charm, but Jethro knew better. The boy was nothing more than a weak-willed, over-coddled  _nobleman_ , who had no place in Jethro’s forest.

And unless Tim wanted Jethro to step in and revoke his tenuously given consent to this marriage, he ought to find himself a new best friend.

The boy at least had the good grace to be mortified that his parents were demanding a dowry from a man who gave all his earnings to the poor, so Timothy had devised a plan. He and his cousin had brought into the woods with them what sum would be just sufficient enough to appease his parents and prevent any questions, and that same sum is what they’d take back as the dowry. Jethro didn’t mind being lied about nearly as much as he minded that Tim and his cousin needed to stay for a few days and pretend to be negotiating.

When Jethro asked what time had to do with it, Tim had launched into a cruelly long explanation of etiquette, and how too little time would look like Jet didn’t really want the marriage, and how too much time made Abigail look not worth the trouble. Eventually Jet had just tuned him out and gotten that main message: trust Tony, he’s good at this sort of thing.

Which was another reason the man made Jethro’s blood boil. What sort of man was  _good_  at  _etiquette_?

Jethro stomped around the corner, his mood now doubly soured, and found Ziva not at the river where he’d told her to be with the children so no one would peek into Ducky’s tent and see the body. Instead, she was in the middle of the clearing, sword drawn. He was about to dash forward and put a stop to it, but the joyous whoops of the crowd of onlooking children drew his focus.

Anthony and Ziva were fighting in the circle of children and surprisingly content parents (usually they couldn’t stand the sight of Ziva). They whirled and sliced, bringing their swords together in a dance with far more complicated steps than one would ever see in a real battle. They moved swiftly, blurring together, looking to all the world as though they were made to dance this—and every dance—together.

Their movements were big and graceful, drawing the attention of the children as they cheered for their favorite, and keeping them away from sweet Ducky who they usually followed after like… well, ducklings.

The two must have been fighting since Jethro and Tim brought the body back, since they were both covered in a fine sheen of revealing sweat. It made their clothes cling to their coiling muscles, illuminating the lithe lines of a natural born fighter that each of them carried. Most of the men in the steadily growing circle had their eyes trained on Ziva, watching her arch and spring, colliding with Anthony again and again in a sweaty heap. More than a few of them had let their jaws drop as they gaped at the sight of her, and would probably be spending their nights cast out of their tents as punishment for their gawking. (Jethro made a mental note that if Ziva handled the men’s staring well, she’d be forever loved by the women of the camp, which was a change of public opinion that she needed.)

The wives were much more circumspect in their staring at Anthony. As was Jethro.

They all watched the play of strong muscles across Tony’s back, and the women exchanged a lecherous look or two with their companions, as though to ask, ‘are you seeing this?’ Jethro was too distracted to pay them all much attention. He was seduced by the demands of his imagination at the sight of Anthony sweat soaked and gasping for air, wondering what those muscles would feel like twisting under his hands.

But it was more than that. It was seeing the truth of the man Anthony kept well hidden under his nobility. He was gentle with Ziva, letting her get in hits that he could’ve easily stopped, but he was too uncomfortable with striking a woman. And when he had a breath to spare he’d stop to tease the children, drawing them into the game with him and Ziva, sending them all into giggles.

Anthony ducked behind a row of children, stage whispering to them, “Shhh! Don’t tell her I’m here!” They all snickered, and shouted his location to Ziva the moment she asked, as Anthony had known they would. He bounded up from behind them with a fake glower, then couldn’t keep himself angry and burst into laughter.

That was the moment that stopped Jethro’s writhing imagination cold.

Anthony was young. Too young. Still half a child himself. The sight of watching Anthony play like an elder brother with the children was enough to make Jethro feel like a dirty old man, and considering that was the ilk he stopped on a day to day basis, it wasn’t a comparison he wanted made. There would be no more thoughts of this Tony, of the man he was being with this circle of children.

In Jethro’s mind Anthony would have to stay the spoiled brat Jethro had desperately hoped the boy was from the first sight of his astounded eyes, and that would have to be enough for Jethro to control himself until the damn man and his easy smile got the hell out of Jethro’s forest.

XXXXXXX

Ziva had spent the better part of the night watching Jethro  _not_ watch Anthony. Or more to the point, watch him not watch Anthony flirt with everyone  _but_ Jethro.

Though Ziva had to admit, she wouldn’t flirt with anyone who treated her with the disdain that Boss was dripping at Tony either. But Jethro wanted to be the one Anthony flirted with, she could see it written in bold lines all over his face. But no, not that either, not  _flirt_. Judging from the half-starved look in his eyes, Jethro wanted nothing less than to thrust into the boy until he screamed and couldn’t bring himself to walk away.

This was a new look for the Boss. And judging by the way Jethro’s typically sweet sister-in-law, Kate, was flirting with Tony, it was a look she was trying to enflame.

Ziva had been petrified when she followed Jethro home from the Holy Land. A widower who’d buried his eldest daughter, coming home to his sister-in-law and his baby girl with a foreign woman in tow? She’d thought about turning back several times, but something always stopped her. Jethro had a pull to him, something no one could deny. She wasn’t attracted to him by any stretch of the imagination—though sometimes the teasing beauty of his smile made it so she couldn’t breathe properly—but she did love him. As a child should love their father.

The moment they’d stepped back into his home village Kathryn and Abigail had each taken one long look at the two of them, sized up the relationship, and handed out hugs. Abby had called her sister from that day on, and spoke to her like she’d always been there instead of some waif her father had brought home. Kate had been just as perfect, giving answers to questions unasked about the life of an English woman. They’d given her a family, a home, and in short: made her life perfect.

There had been a hushed conversation or two (or twenty) between the three women about how it was long past time for Jethro to take someone into his bed, someone to make him remember he was human, not merely a selfless rogue. And apparently Kate had decided that humanity was to come from this nobleman with fine eyes and a quick smile.

One of Jethro’s most trusted men crept up to her at the outskirts of the dinner group, obviously not wanting to draw too much attention to himself as he interrupted her mulling. “Miss Ziva, may I have a word?”

She nodded and followed him away from the group, still holding a position where she could keep her eyes on the Boss, just in case he called for her. “One of the food runners just got back, apparently in the village he visits there are two missing young men with brown hair and green eyes.” Her gaze turned sharp and he continued. “I thought you and the Boss would want to be sure, so I’ve sent some lads out to bring in their fathers to identify the bodies.”

Jethro knew something had happened, as he always did. Before she even had the chance to call for him he turned up at her side. She explained the situation and he demanded, “When are the parents going to be here?”

“Just before dusk, Boss.”

He nodded. “That’ll be just enough time for Father Mallard to clean up the bodies. No parent should have to see their child like that.” He waited until the man had walked away to inform Ducky, then leaned over to Ziva and whispered, “And now we have a connection that might explain why these two boys were killed.”

XXXXXXX

The rest of Jethro’s night had been wretched, attempting to offer comfort to the fathers of two dead sons who would never really find comfort. The boys were cousins, and best friends, and according to their fathers they wouldn’t have wanted to live in a world without the other anyway. After all the pain, eventually the fathers had admitted they had a third brother, one who practiced the dark arts and had been branded and exiled from their village. They’d heard rumors that he was lurking in Sherwood, and now Jethro had a place to hunt for the murderer.

They’d find this devil-worshiping uncle and let the fathers have at him for the pain he caused their homes. Hunting down this vagabond would be reason enough to send Timothy and his cousin back to his parent’s house first thing in the morning, no matter how long etiquette might’ve demanded they stay.

Jethro had sent a few men to carry the bodies back to their homes and then stay nearby the village and provide protection should this third brother come back to harm any more of the children. Ever-impatient Ziva had waited a whole of ten minutes before roaming into the darkness of the forest on the own, checking the most direct routes between the village where the boys had lived and where their bodies had been found, hoping to pick up a trace.

All of which pulled the responsibility off Jethro’s shoulders and should be sending him straight to bed. His  _own_  bed. But he couldn’t help himself. Somehow his wandering feet carried him up to one of the spare cots they kept tucked in a room up in the trees. Before logic, or reason, or common sense, or fear of getting caught, or  _any_  of his precious safeties could take control, he shifted back the blanket over Anthony’s door and slid inside.

And there he was, the root of all temptation, a body used to luxury sprawled out on no more than a straw pad in one of their tree houses. Without the heat of the fires nearby, the above ground housing usually got quite chilled, but as Kate had put it to rile Jethro, Tony’s blood seemed to always run hot. The boy had pushed the blankets down, reveling to the night air the skin of his shirtless back.

What little moonlight made it through the canopy seemed to flock straight to the man before him, his skin soaking up the dappled light and making him glow. He shone in the starlight, the sleek and perfect lines of his untouched skin beckoning to Jethro. He tried to stop himself, he truly did, but before his control could step in, Jethro traced his fingertips ever so slowly down the long spine exposed to him, drinking in the barest of touches, knowing it was all he could ever have. Some moral part of him felt wretched for taking that from the boy when he was in no position to refuse, but the core of him, the warrior who kept them all alive and the part that Jethro did his best to control, that man begged for just a little more. The darkest part of him pled for at least a whole hand laid on that smooth back. No, not laid, dragged. To feel the muscles underneath the skin tense and bunch, to knead them and feel the blood pulse and scream in the vibrant flesh he was only allowing his fingertips to glide over, and just the once.

Not even the willful piece of him, buried deep, could even begin to imagine taking this boy, it was too far outside the realm of his imagination. He just wanted to feel him. To have his hands know that skin, to lie beside this glowing faerie child and wrap skin around skin, drinking in his touch.

As Jethro’s fingers finished their one permitted line down the spine’s arch, he looked up, and there was Kate, his wife’s sister, watching him bask in the feel of the other man. He was too well trained to startle at the sight of her, but it was enough for the wretched guilt to slip in. He lightly lifted his fingers from Tony’s back, aborting their plans to finish tracing the bumps of his spine, and deftly strode from the room, never quite meeting Kate’s eyes.

She sauntered beside him back to his hut, obviously tickled pink that she’d gone and discovered his crush. Though Kate or not Kate, if she called it a ‘crush’ to his face, Jethro would most likely tie her to a tree and leave her for the wolves to devour.

He stormed into his home, heading straight for the private stash of mead he kept tucked away behind his bedroll while Kate made herself comfortable on his floor with more dramatics then he thought her capable of. “So...” she began, “Anything you’d like to talk to me about?”

Jethro barely dignified her question with a snort and proceeded to ignore her as he went looking for the quiver he’d been working on before his life tumbled into a mess. “Right, that was a stupid question, because heaven knows, Jethro Gibbs isn’t the sort of man to  _talk_  about things. What good could possibly come from expressing your emotions instead of bottling them up.”

“I’m not  _bottling_  anything, Kate.”

It was her turn to snort, and she replied, “Like hell you’re not Jethro.” He stared at her, shocked by the second time he’d ever heard her curse. “You’re human Jethro, despite all rumors to the contrary, and if you ignore the human bits of you for much longer then one day they’re just going to take over and you’re going to do something you regret.”

“It’s not the human bit I’m ignoring, Kate. It’s the bit that doesn’t deserve to be given voice.”

“Jethro, I say this with all love, and as quite possibly the one person on this planet who knows the living, breathing mortal man wrapped up inside that legend’s shell, you’re full of it.”

“And with all love, Kate, I’m telling you to let it go.”

“Not gonna happen, Jet.” He finally found the quiver he’d been looking for and stormed out of the hut, hoping to leave her and her pesky questions behind. He ducked into the forest, heading for his favorite clearing and meaning to work himself to sleep by the light of the full moon.

She thundered after him, interrupting the peaceful quiet he’d been looking for and hissed so the men wouldn’t hear her. “You trained me yourself Gibbs, I don’t know why you’d think you could lose me that easily.”

“Maybe because I asked you to leave me alone, Kathryn, and I thought that would be enough.”

“You’re not going to guilt me out of this, Jet. I know you too well. I know what this is going to turn into.”

He slammed to a stop and turned on his heel, letting her crash into his broad chest before he demanded, “Really, Kate? And what’s that?”

She righted herself with a huff and said, “You’re hungry, Jethro. And either you’ll find some way to appease the hunger, probably by doing something stupid like hit the man, or it will take over when you can’t control it anymore.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her, feigning amusement at her comparison and said, “You know that I’m not  _actually_  a wolf, don’t you Kate?”

She glared at him and replied, “Unlike the hoard that thinks you’re a demigod, I know how painfully human you truly are.”

Pain flickered across his eyes, and he turned to walk away, but Kate threw her arms around him in a hug too quickly for him to escape. “You know I wasn’t talking about the girls, Jethro. I meant that it took you two years to tell my sister you were in love with her.”

“And what’s wrong with taking my time?”

She snorted, “That wasn’t taking your time, Jet, that was the belief you weren’t good enough for her. Then one day that filthy Sheriff wouldn’t stop making her uncomfortable and you just snapped. You broke his nose, told her you couldn’t live without her, and eloped before the sun set. You just couldn’t keep it all in anymore. You always do that with things that you’re too scared to want.”

He tensed, and every bit of Kate prayed he wouldn’t throw her weight off and dash into the woods, because training or not, she wouldn’t be able to follow. He very gently rested his hand on top of Kate’s, which were wrapped around his chest. He whispered, “I love Shannon.”

She whispered back, “I know. And she knows. And Kell knows. Anyone who’s ever met you, or heard tell of you, they all know you love her, and a piece of you will love her until you die. Loving someone else won’t change that.”

Jethro tossed off her embrace when she pushed too far. “I don’t  _love_  him! He’s a damn prissy nobleman! Love has nothing to do with it, I just, I...”

“You  _want_  him. Because you know full well that he’s none of the things that you’re pretending he is, and you want the man he is inside. You’re hungry for him.”

Jethro kept his back to her, completely unable to carry on this conversation and meet her eyes at the same time. “He’s a boy, he’s a  _child_. He’s better suited to Abby, or Kell, if she were here.”

“Ah yes Jethro, because only  _you_  would think it’s more healthy to lust after your son-in-law than to just take the boy to bed.”

“The boy? You’re practically the same age, Kate!”

“Well, that’s true. And I’ll admit Jethro, he’s a rather delicious fellow. He’s well built, and those eyes, the color of young trees in the summer sun, and those lips, can you imagine the taste of them, Jet? Maybe you’re right, maybe I should take him into my bed, be the one to show him what beds are meant for.”

Jethro knew she was baiting him, knew it completely, but that didn’t stop him from whirling to face her with rage and jealousy burning in his eyes. She tilted her head with an, ‘I told you so’ smirk, and he couldn’t help but smile at his own foolishness. “Fine. I want to take him to bed and I don’t want anyone else to touch him. But that’s the most you’re getting out of me.”

“It’ll have to do.”

She wrapped her arms around him again and whispered, “We all just want you to be happy, Jet. Life it far too short and terrible to waste it wondering.” With that she kissed his cheek and tugged him back to camp. Jethro would wrap himself up in finding the missing uncle come first light, pretending that this conversation had never happened, but at least she could revel in the notion that he just might actually listen to her, for once.


	3. Chapter 3

Jethro had ranged throughout the whole of Rome, using and threatening every last one of his contacts to track down information on his one suspect, the only link between the two dead young men. Much to his irritation, that one suspect had turned into a victim himself, and Jethro was beginning to lose his patience. One boy drowned, another crushed, and now a third body, a fully-grown man, who should’ve been able to defend himself, burned. And to make matters worse, all three of the bodies had a cross etched into the ground beneath where they lay. This sort of devilry wasn’t supposed to happen in Vatican City, especially not with Jethro as Special Investigator of the Swiss Guard.

He’d caught the sickeningly sweet smell of burnt flesh before he burst into the suspect’s room, only to find the heat-twisted corpse laid out on the deformed cross that had been smeared across the stone floor. The first body had been situated at the cross’s almost circular head, while the second and the left arm, and this one at the base. He’d called a doctor to examine the body, but he could already see the shattered state of the man’s skull, meaning that he’d been knocked unconscious to ease the murder. Jethro spent the rest of his afternoon trying to get the reluctant citizens of Rome who shared in the squalor of the victim’s building to answer his questions, but whether any of them saw a thing, none of them were willing to talk.

By the time Jethro made his way back inside Vatican City, his patience was worn to the breaking point and people scattered out of his path in terror. His temper had been flaring up for days since being forced to deal with the drama of Timothy, a lesser, but still beloved, cousin of the Medici. The lad had come to pay his respects to the female painter, Ziva, as her patron, and though in and of himself the boy wasn’t too worrisome, trouble seemed to follow him.

After spending all his time in the City with Sister Caitlin, Timothy had decided to become a Priest. The Medici family hadn’t taken the news well at all (particularly because the boy was engaged to the only child of Donald, Duke of Edinburgh). Timothy was bred to form his family a powerful alliance with the British Isles, and now he’d gone and gotten himself smitten with the Church. (Though if his love affair was with the religion or the library, Jethro couldn’t quite tell.)

Timothy was too mild a personality for Jethro’s tastes, but Ziva and Sister Cait seemed to think he was worth all the fuss he’d created. And considering that Ziva was the only artist who didn’t drive Jethro insane, and Cait the only nun who didn’t make him feel like a wretch, he trusted their opinions.

On the whole, he hadn’t minded looking after the lad, even when he was causing an aristocratic uproar. At least, he hadn’t until the Medici’s sent someone to bring him back into line. When Jethro met the family’s negotiator, he wished he’d never set an eye on Timothy if this was the bane he brought with him.

Jethro had been happily married until the moment he was robbed of his wife and daughter in a freak accident. He’d drowned himself in drink until an old companion from The Guard hauled him out of a tavern, dried him out, and demanded that he get his life back together. And from that moment, Jethro had. He solved some of the most wretched crimes that spilled over into the Holy City from the dregs of Rome, and occasionally went on special assignment for the Papal Office. Such an assignment had been tending to Timothy, and little had he suspected letting the boy into the library would cause the exact sort of problem The Church had been trying to avoid.

But now, Jethro was paying his penance for that mistake tenfold.

The Medicis had sent Timothy’s favorite cousin, Anthony, to collect him. Apparently Timothy had a history for being stubborn when he made up his mind, and Anthony was the only person who could ever talk him out of it. Anthony was a youngest son of a youngest son, born to nothing greater than his fine surname paying his bills and greasing open young women’s legs. But Anthony had become more than that. He was the Medici’s ‘fixer.’ He’d been blessed with a warm smile and a silver tongue, and it was Anthony they sent to solve intra-family problems with no fuss and no gossip.

Not to say that the boy wasn’t still a cad, despite his abilities. That smooth tongue got him in everywhere—including, from what Sister Cait said, a nun a night since he began his stay. It didn’t help matters that the youth looked like he’d been cut from Roman marble, and ought to be pictured somewhere being held up by a satyr while wrapped around a nymph.

The week had started off so pleasantly and now there was a murderer on the loose in his city, and this Pan torturing his dreams. The worst of it was, Anthony had these flashes of tenderness, moments where he was so gentle with a confused Timothy, and made stoic Ziva laugh aloud, to say nothing of getting perfect Cait to stoop to flirt. He was so breathtakingly human that Jethro could barely stand it, so he spent his time away from the problems of the Vatican and hunting this murderer.

The first two victims had been foreigners on a tour with their friends, seeing the Holy City for the first time. In fact, save for the brown hair and green eyes, it almost seemed that the killer had chosen his victims at random, solely based on opportunity. It had taken hours of seemingly pointless questions to discover that other than the city, the only thing the boys had in common was that they’d stayed in the same hotel just outside of Rome, and each gotten into a fight at the hotel’s tavern. They’d only stayed for one night, and not at the same time, but still, it was something.

He’d gotten a description of the man each boy had fought, and it sounded like the same wretch. Jethro had arrived at the hotel seeking the brawler just as the proprietor had come stumbling out, screaming about a corpse. The room belonged to a man matching the description Jethro had: a green-eyed, brown-haired ruffian known for picking fights with tourists so his partner could pick the pockets of onlookers while they were distracted. The murdering bastard had killed another man, all while Jethro had been wrapped up in questioning the tourists and getting distracted every five seconds by thoughts of Anthony.

The bastard had even left a note tied to the body, telling him, “Maybe you missed something? I suppose I’ll just have to try again and again until you understand.” Jethro didn’t like murderers in the first place, and on days when he already felt like he was going out of his mind? Jethro vowed that this man would be a corpse himself before the end of the week.

XXXXXXX

Tony found Tim curled up in one of the many nooks of the great Vatican library. Considering Tim’s unwieldy love of the written word, Tony wasn’t surprised that the chance to spend the rest of his days wrapped up in these books played a part in his unexpected decision to stay. His choice wasn’t even really about the books, or the chance at some peace and quiet, it was about the pressure crashing down on him. Every step of Tim’s life had been hand picked for him, and now he had found his form of rebellion. (And only Timothy would find becoming a priest a good way to rebel.)

It wasn’t that Tim didn’t want the future they’d handed him on a silver platter, it was that he wanted to chose it all for himself. Tim loved his betrothed, Abigail, he loved Edinburgh, he loved the Scottish people, and he loved the chance to be a proper Nobleman who looked after all the people in his care. He had the sort of giving heart that should be tending to others as a shepherd tends to his flock, but sweet Tim felt unnerved that he was so perfect for it. Silly lad thought he was supposed to waste a few years doing exactly the opposite of what he was told before he settled down on the path he was designed for, whether he actually wanted to roam away from destiny or not. Anthony supposed that this was a result of his influence on his cousin, but of all the things he’d hoped to teach Tim, that wasn’t anywhere near the list.

Anthony stepped into the alcove, sure to make enough noise that Tim would know he was coming and not startle at his approach. Tony crashed down onto the floor before Tim’s chair, looking up at that cherubic face, perfectly lit by the glowing colors of the stained glass in the dying sun of early evening. “I need you to answer two questions, just two, and then I’ll let you stay here if that’s what you really want.”

Tim just sighed, “I know they won’t let me stay, even if I want to.”

Tony snorted. “Tim, you may finally be telling the family what you want to do, but you still don’t know how to actually pull off being wicked. Sure, they may want you to stop you from becoming a priest, but they can’t stop you if you’ve already taken your vows.”

Tim jumped so much he nearly dropped the book he was holding. He leaned forward and with an intense whisper asked, “You’d really let me do that?”

“I promise, Tim. If you answer my two questions, and you and I can both live with them, I’ll stand by you myself when you take your vows, and no one short of The Holy Father himself will stop you.”

“Alright: Question one?”

“What about Abby?”

Tim flushed and fidgeted, uncomfortable with the only thing he’d really regret leaving behind. “What about her?”

“What am I supposed to tell her, Tim? That you just woke up one morning and you weren’t in love with her anymore? ‘Cause you are in love with her, even if you’re too distracted to remember it right now. You love her more than any other woman you’ve ever met before, and we both know the family has paraded plenty of them past you.”

“It’s not that I don’t love her, Tony, I just ... I want to live my own life.”

“And that’s not supposed to include her? Two months ago you were so excited to spend the rest of your days with her that you were practically singing!”

Tim thumped the book down on a nearby table and leaned forward with his head in his hands. “I know Tony, I know. Can we, can we skip to your next question while I think of an answer to the first?”

“Sure, Tim. How am I supposed to spend the rest of my life married to  _your_  wife?” Tim’s head popped up, and Tony met his shocked stare with his own firm glare and continued. “Because that’s what Abby will always be.  _Your wife_. I know you’ll always love her, so I can’t let her spend the rest of her life married to anyone who’ll love her less than you would. And that’s got to be me. I’ll love her differently, but I’m the only man alive who’ll be just as good to her. So tell me, how am I supposed to spend the rest of my born days married to my best friend’s wife? How am I supposed to raise children that were meant to be his? How am I supposed to be you, Tim? I don’t have it in me to be good like you are, so I need you to teach me how to have your soul, so that woman, and those children, don’t miss out on the man they’re supposed to have.”

Sweet Timothy’s bottom lip was quivering, heartbroken at the thought he’d never had. He always seemed to miss the sort of selfless love that Tony had for him until Tony did something wretchedly stupid for the sake of that love. “Oh, Tony.” Tim sniffled, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around Tony and cry into his shoulder. Tim loved Abby, he always had, always would, it just felt like too much some days, like fate was patiently waiting for him to man up and walk down that road.

Tony just patted Tim on the cheek, pulling the younger man in for an obviously much needed hug. “You can take your time Tim, but those are questions that need answers before you up and leave your life behind.”

XXXXXXX

Jethro was storming around his office like a bear with a sore paw. The whispered word had filtered though the Swiss Guard that the murderer he was tracking had decided to play with him, and Jethro wasn’t taking it well.

One of the guards had dropped by Ziva’s studio, asking her to just come and sit with Jethro, because her mere presence usually brought out his innate desire to nurture, and that would bring him out of his funk. Ziva refused to talk about the meeting they’d had, but according to the Guard who’d been eavesdropping outside the door, there had been yelling, and the crashing of objects against walls. If questioned, each and every guard would swear that the objects had thrown themselves into walls, all without the help Jethro’s temper.

Next, they asked Sister Cait drop by, betting that the good sister would either be able to logic, cheer, or guilt Jethro out of his foul temper. They bet wrong. Sweet Cait emerged from the office with tears streaked down her face and for the first time since taking her orders, cursing.

None of the other Guards could figure out what it was about this case in particular that was pushing Jethro off the edge, or why in the hell he thought taking his anger out on those around him was the best way to find the killer.

But Tony understood it. The bastard was doing penance for the deaths by isolating himself. With a few pointed questions Tony discovered that Jethro hadn’t really trusted anyone else to share his load in over a decade, and somewhere in his guilt-addled mind the fact that the killer was still free meant that he hadn’t been shouldering enough of the burden.

Tony knew that Jethro would keep driving himself like this until the killer was caught, or until his soul couldn’t take the weight of the anger anymore. And since there wasn’t much he could do to help catch the killer, the best Tony could do was to throw himself on the altar of rage and hope he could burn enough of it off that Jethro could remember how to function around people.

He tapped lightly on the door to Jethro’s office, fully expecting the shout of “Go away!” But Anthony ignored it and sauntered in with his most irritatingly false grin plastered over his face. That had always irked Jethro, even in the bits of their history Jethro couldn’t seem to remember.

The first time Anthony had met Jethro he’d been no more than a boy, coming to visit the Holy City for the first time in the company of one of his more prominent uncles. He’d gotten himself wretchedly lost in one of the gardens and fallen down a hill, scraping his knee. That’s where a much younger Jethro had found him, curled up in the dirt and sobbing miserably. Jethro had been about to leave the Guard to raise a family with his lovely fiancé, and the man Anthony remembered from that day had been all quick smiles and gentle jokes.

From the tenderness of that single day Tony had spent the rest of his life in love with Jethro. He’d begged and pled with their great-grandfather to be allowed to follow after Timothy to the Vatican, for the sole purpose of seeing Jethro again. Through the family network of informants Anthony had been keeping tabs on Jethro through all the intervening years, and marked his own life by the passage of Jethro’s. He rejoiced the day Jethro’s wife gave birth to a daughter, sending an unnamed gift even grander than would’ve befit a son’s birth (because when he was still young he’d wanted the position of Jethro’s son to belong to him). When that same wife and child died, Anthony’s heart had grown to that of a man, and with that mature soul he’d wept for his true love’s pain. And when Jethro had climbed back out of the bottle, Anthony had pulled a few strings from behind the curtain to secure him a position with the Guard once again, no matter the priestly objections.

Time had changed them both, grief driving Jethro to the edge of sanity, and isolation driving Anthony to sleep with anything that would show him the same tenderness Jethro had shown him and would purge that ache of loneliness from his chest. He’d do anything for Jethro, always would, even if that anything meant offering himself up to have the skin flayed from his bones in an attempt to save Jethro from ruining everything he’d created since his world fell apart.

Jethro didn’t look up from the papers at his desk as he said, “I told you to go away.”

“You know me, Jethro. I’ve never been go at doing as I’m told.” Anthony’s voice wasn’t the one he’d been expecting, so at the sound of it Jethro’s head popped up and his eyes darkened.

“What the hell are you doing here!” He spat out.

Tony just laughed, trying to make it as demeaning as possible. “You’re joking right? The whole city knows you’re in a state over this murderer of yours and you’ve been shouting at the whole building trying to vent your frustration.”

“And why does this matter to you?” Anthony ardently fought the overwhelming urge to drop his eyes and break the glare Jethro had fixed on him. If the man really wanted it, Anthony was sure he would’ve lit on fire from that stare alone.

Anthony turned his grin lecherous and oh, so, slowly settled himself down on the chair on the opposing side of Jethro’s desk, stretching out his long form to the most aesthetically pleasing. “I’ve been told that I’m quite an excellent distracter.”

Jethro actually cocked his head to the side, completely confused as to what Anthony was offering. But the moment clarity dawned, a thundercloud passed over his striking features. “Did you just proposition me?”

“Well, I think I would’ve found a more charming way to phrase it, but essentially.”

Anthony knew he was heading in the right direction when Jethro didn’t even bat an eye before replying, “Is this why you’re such a good negotiator for your family? You prostitute yourself out to anyone who’ll have you?”

Tony had known it was coming, he’d actually baited Jethro into saying it while he was in such a temper, but that didn’t make the cut any less. He’d adored this man for over a decade and was now doing his best to become the sole object of his wrath. Fate was certainly a wench sometimes. “Not just  _anyone_ , Jethro. I actually have a very prestigious clientele. Don’t worry, normally you wouldn’t be on it, but Timothy seems to like you so I thought I’d make an exception.”

Jethro clenched his jaw, every inch of him dripping with wrath. “You came to my office just to insult me?”

“No, Jethro. I though I was clearer than that. I’m here to make you forget for a while.”

Jethro leaned back into the harsh lines of his chair. “And why would you do that?”

Tony grinned lasciviously. “Partly because you getting laid will make life easier on my cousin, but mainly because I’ve never had a member of the Swiss Guard before.” Tony pitched his tone to the most demeaning he could manage so no man with a shred of self-respect could accept his offer, and a man like Jethro would beat him silly for it.

“So you intend to betray your fiancé and your god to calm me down.”

Tony snorted. “She’s only my fiancé as long as Tim stays here, and she won’t mind anyway, she’s used to it. And  _money_  is my god, Jethro, it’s much more willing to interfere than yours.” That did it. Insults to the only two things Jethro believed in—family and faith—aand Jethro snapped.

From one breath to the next Jethro was on him, and Tony had a moment to think maybe he had pushed too hard before the fists descended.

XXXXXXX

It was Timothy who found Tony afterwards. Disturbed by Caitlin’s report of a much calmer Jethro, he’d gone to make sure Tony hadn’t done exactly what Timothy thought he’d done. He found Tony half dressed and sprawled on his bed, contemplating whether it was worth it to stand up and tend to his injuries or just lie there until he passed out.

Tim dashed to the library nook where Caitlin did all her research and told her all in a hasty explanation. She sent Tim back to Tony, following along minutes later with Ziva, who’d had some medical training to apply to Tony.

Tim had to admit, as talented a painter as Ziva was, she was an even better healer. She gently checked Anthony for broken ribs, then propelled him to a seated position, carefully washing the few wounds that had drawn blood, and finally rubbing some sort of ointment over his bruises. Unlike the caricature Tony had been playing the last few days, he had only respectful words for the woman running her hands over his bare chest. He didn’t flirt, politely inquired whether he should be reapplying the ointment, and graciously thanked her, much to the astonishment of Caitlin and the gratitude of Timothy.

Tim plopped down on the bed next to Tony when Ziva moved to wrap most of his chest with gauze and Caitlin thought she’d take the chance to get a straight answer out of him. “What did you do to irritate Jethro so much?”

Tony’s eyes flicked up from where he was diligently observing the application of his medication so Ziva wouldn’t need to be put out with his care again and said, “Are you sure you want to know Caitlin? It won’t be anything you agree with.”

“Thank you, I could surmise that for myself from the need Jethro felt to pummel you. What did you do?”

He gave the faintest of grins then calmly stated, “I propositioned him.”

“Y-You what?” Cait stuttered out with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Tony’s grin grew at the slightest twitch of a smile he was inspiring in Ziva, and he continued. “I told him I wanted to have sex with him.” Cait sputtered again, so Tony pressed on. “Loud sex. On his desk. In the middle of the day.”

Cait face flamed red and she crossed herself, muttered a prayer over Anthony’s blasphemy. “Why would you do that!” It wasn’t the question she really wanted to ask, but it seemed more appropriate than ‘Do you have a death wish?’

Tony was about to flail out with something impetuous but Ziva replied for him, “Because Jethro is now much calmer.” She kept steadily wrapping the wound, ignoring Caitlin’s confusion, and Tony and Tim’s gratitude at her interference.

“What do the two have to do with one another?” Caitlin asked.

Ziva leveled a disbelieving look on her and said, “Surely you of all people must understand the value of a sacrificial lamb, Sister Calitlin.”

Tentative understanding flicked through Cait’s eyes and she replied, “You, you made him mad at you instead of mad at everything?”

Tony tried to shrug, but he grimaced at the motion instead. “Figured he’d be easier to deal with if he had a living being who he could actually fight instead of railing against the fates.” Tony leaned back with a groan, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Caitlin sunk down on the foot of Tony’s bed and asked, “Why would you do that?”

Tony looked at her like this was a ridiculously stupid question and said, “Because he loves all of you, and I wouldn’t rob him of your guidance, not even on his worst day. He needs you.”

Caitlin and Timothy nodded, accepting Anthony’s logic that as the man passing through, he was the disposable one. Ziva though, Ziva ran her fingers through Anthony’s hair, knowing full well the pain Anthony pretended he wasn’t in.

She’d seen how Jethro looked at Anthony when he thought no one was looking, when Tony’s brow was furrowed as he a read a text from the library, or basked in the glow of art in the galleries, or defended the little priests when outsiders were giving them a tough time. In the few days Anthony had been here he’d been almost unable to keep his usual deception intact around Jethro, and the part of Jethro not bred out of him by his religious service couldn’t help but respond.

She knew what it cost Anthony to make himself the object of Jethro’s hate, and they all knew that Jethro wasn’t the sort of man to go about forgiving him for such an affront. Some days Ziva thought the fates must have intended for Jethro to have a different best friend than the one he found in Sister Caitlin. Ziva had tried to step up and fill the void, but her pagan beliefs made that path difficult, if not impossible. He needed someone with a gentle hand to stand on the right side of human and lure him back over with a carrot, but neither woman fit the bill. Caitlin lured towards perfect, and Ziva hammered towards human, and neither was enough to persuade Jethro when his mind was set.

A better friend would mention to Jethro that Anthony had irritated him to divert his rage from everyone else, and press on to point out that perhaps the only reason Jethro was quite so irate as he was, was because he had hoped Anthony was truly that quiet, passionate, honorable man whom Jethro had seen flashes of. But alas, there was no such friend to accomplish the task without doing more damage. As it stood, Ziva could only nurse Anthony’s body back to health, trusting that the moment he left Vatican City his heart would begin to mend. As for Jethro, he would ache with this wasted chance for the rest of his life, and never really understand why.

Provided, of course, that the killer didn’t end his pain first.


	4. Chapter 4

Jethro rode across the green fields of southern England, the bright beauty of the day at odds with the tumult in his little corner of the world. He was galloping towards one of the far edges of his estate, repeating the miserable number ‘four’ over and over in his mind.

Four young men murdered on his estate or the lands surrounding it, and the only witness a traumatized maid who swore the murderer was doing it to threaten Captain Gibbs. Though Jethro didn’t understand why this lunatic thought attacking lads with brown hair and green eyes would do him any real harm. Tony had at least had the good grace to wait until the maid had been escorted out to scoff, “Well, whoever this madman is, we can at least take comfort that his delusion is focused on me and not one of the children.”

Jethro had tapped Tony on the back of the head, an affectionate gesture they’d had since their youth together in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. As usual, Tony had merely laughed when smacked and retorted, “At least when he comes after me next I’ll be able to dispatch him properly.”

But Anthony had been wrong.

Four young men had met their deaths by the hands of this lunatic with no trace left behind. One drowned, one crushed, one burned, and now one strangled, so violently, the Sheriff said, that you could see the bruises from the bastard’s hands wringing round the lad’s neck. Each of them a sacrifice to some pagan symbol that despite all their travels, neither Jethro, Tony, nor Ducky had ever seen.

After the second death, Jethro had forcibly hauled Anthony from his home, located just over the hill, and into Jethro’s own manor for safekeeping. Doctor Mallard, Jethro’s oldest family friend and the man who ran the estate when Jethro had been away to sea, dispelled all gossip amongst the servants and townsfolk by insisting that Jethro had no fears for Master Tony’s safety, Kate just suspected that Tony would dash off and try to handle matters himself so the Captain thought he’d step in. Which  _was_  the truth, though not anywhere near its entirety.

Jethro had met his lifelong best friend their first day on board a ship at the ripe old age of twelve. The other boys deemed the son of a British merchant and Italian barmaid inferior, but Jethro knew better. Every ship they’d served on, they served on together. Every battle, Tony was by his side. Every trip home, Tony slept under his roof. Anthony had given up postings on his own ship more times than Jethro could count, all to stay as Jethro’s first mate. He’d married Jethro’s little sister, Kate, after her husband died, so her children would have someone to look after them, and functioned as Jethro’s liaison to the rest of the county so he wouldn’t have to deal with people.

Tony was loyal beyond all reason, and yet Jethro was so mad at him he wanted to toss the damn fool through a window.

Jethro was... tense, about this whole murder mess. At this moment, he wanted nothing more than this killer impaled on his sword, and having this cretin running through Jethro’s countryside murdering tenants under his protection was enough to make him rather difficult to be around.

As usual, Tony had thrown himself on Jethro’s temper to keep it from infecting all those around them. He’d nearly snapped at little Abigail in his frustration, which would’ve gotten him thrown out of Katelyn’s house before he had the chance to blink, but Tony had stopped him. He’d made an untoward joke about Jethro being too much of an old man to handle the murderer, Jethro had bristled, and with a wink Tony had sent his three children from the room. (Kate, of course, had left of her own free will, since no one would ever dream of sending her anywhere.)

Then, well... then there’d been shouting, and threatening, and perhaps a fist or two. He couldn’t really remember through the haze of temper and shame. Tony had used the same tactic when they were at sea, sparing all those who didn’t quite deserve Jethro’s wrath by directing the anger towards himself. Jethro always realized that Tony had done it in the aftermath, but in the throws of temper, he couldn’t stop.

Now, Jethro rode across the bright green fields of his home, off to face another broken body, a pale echo of his best friend, and his stomach rebelled at the thought. Jethro had walked out when Doctor Mallard walked in, declaring the sheriff had found another body, and bestowing Jethro with a glare when he took in sight of blood seeping from Tony’s lip.

He’d lost his temper, again. Taken it out on Tony, again. Felt wretched about it, again. He fought the urge to turn his horse around and ask Tony why in the world he let himself be the whipping boy,  _again_. Gibbs knew he ought to be asking himself why he kept behaving this way, but that tapped into an inner darkness he didn’t want to examine.

Jethro tucked all those thoughts away when he arrived at the cottage where the lad’s body had been found. He slid from his horse and lashed the reins to a post, striding up to the house with more control over his temper than he had thought possible since this whole mess began.

The sheriff tipped his hat and started quickly, knowing Captain Gibbs didn’t tolerate delay. “The lad’s fiancée came to fetch him when he was late to breakfast at her parent’s house. She called to him, and when he didn’t answer, she crept in and found him abed. Thinking he was ill, she stepped up to shake him awake, and realized how cold he felt to the touch. When he didn’t come to, she started to scream, and we were sent for.”

“What have the neighbors said?”

The Sheriff cocked a brow and asked, “About the screaming? It was loud, Captain.”

Jethro restrained himself to only an eye roll, grateful once again that Tony had drained his rage to the point where turning to shout at the Sheriff was only a slight temptation rather than a burning need. Without breaking his stride Jethro demanded, “Go. Question the neighbors, ask them who they saw coming and going from this home yesterday afternoon and last night.”

The Sheriff scurried off to fulfill the orders, terrified that Gibbs would lose his temper at any moment for the oversight. Jethro steeled himself before slipping into the half-finished house the boy was building for himself and his fiancée, remembering to breath through his mouth to avoid the stench of death.

The lad was still laid out on the floor on his sleeping mat, his chestnut brown hair not mussed from sleep, but from his anguished love running her fingers through it, pleading with him to wake. Jethro had seen enough of his comrades re-enact the same gesture persuading their friends to breathe again to know the look.

Were it not for the whiteness of his skin and the unnatural stillness, even for sleep, the boy simply would’ve looked exhausted. He could see where the girl’s feet had scuffed through the light traces of the cross that had been scraped into the dirt floor. He could excuse the girl for not noticing that her beloved was in repose on the tip of the cross’s left arm, but the Sheriff was a fool for not seeing it. Gibbs caught sight of the circle of bruises encasing the dead boy’s neck and an unaccountable rage pulsed through him, not because of the needless and wretched death, but because this bastard of a murderer had killed the lad with his own hands. He’d wrung the boy’s neck himself, leaving the bruising prints of his hands forever cinched around that young neck.

Those marks wouldn’t tell Jethro much, but they told him the man doing the killing was escalating, getting more and more aggressive with each passing death. They also said the killer had large hands, broader than Jethro’s own. He examined the bruises, resting his hands in the air above them, determining that the murderer must’ve been straddling the body.

Jethro gently lifted each of the young man’s hands, seeing the blood under his fingernails. The boy had fought, hard, which meant Jethro was looking for scratches up and down the forearms, and maybe face, of this large-handed killer.

From there Jethro withdrew the blanket from the lad’s now cool body. With gentle tugs he checked the young man’s chest, arms, and legs, searching for bruises. There were the ones Jethro expected on the chest and thighs, there from forcibly pinning the boy to the mat while he was strangled. The deep purple on all the bruising was a sure sign the strangling had occurred several hours before, putting the murderer in the house in the dead of night.

Jethro arranged the body with the utmost care, preparing him to be ready for when his family came to collect him. Jethro made a mental note to have a word with the undertaker and make it clear that he would bear all the expense of the funeral. He’d also have to tell Tony to let him know who the family wouldn’t mind hiring as a farmhand to carry the dead son’s load. Should the young man’s fiancée find herself in love again someday, Jethro would pay for the wedding. And knowing Tony’s generosity, he’d probably end up paying for their new house as well.

When Jethro got the murdered boy settled, he stepped out of the house and found Tony there, sitting with a child in his lap while the sheriff had a chat with his parents. Jethro raised an eyebrow at Tony’s unexpected presence. Tony ignored the silent question and bounced the child on his knee while stage whispering, “Look! It’s Uncle Jethro!”

The boy turned and caught sight of Jethro, blushing and tucking his face into Tony’s shirt. Tony ran his hand through the boy’s hair, asking, “What’s wrong little one?”

Jethro was close enough to hear the muffled whine of the boy declare, “That’s  _Captain Gibbs_! He’s not uncle anybody!”

Tony looked up to Gibbs with a smile, which Jethro shared for a moment, until he caught sight of Tony’s swollen bottom lip. Tony caught the remorse flicking through Jethro’s eyes, but shook his head to stop the apology, deeming it unnecessary. Jethro swore to himself it was just an apology delayed, not stopped, and he’d get to it later, though they both knew that was unlikely.

Tony whispered in the child’s ear, “He is too. He’s uncle to  _my_  children.” The little boy glanced over at Gibbs then back to Tony, and Tony nodded vigorously. “Yup, it’s true. He’s their uncle.  _And_ ” Tony paused to draw out the suspense and be sure he had the little boy’s attention, “he’s my best friend.”

The boy’s eyes widened in shock and he whirled around to stare at Jethro. “Really?” he asked in perfect child-like wonder. Jethro crouched down, meeting those ardent eyes and said, “I am. We’ve been best friends since we were about your size.”

He twisted back to Tony and asked again, “Really?” Tony ruffled the boy’s hair again and replied, “Yup.”

Tony’s approval was enough to the boy to make the infamous Captain Gibbs not nearly as scary as he’d always thought. “So, little one. I think we should tell Jethro what you saw last night.”

Gibbs schooled his expression to be as gentle as possible, keeping the boy calm. The child snuggled back into Tony’s embrace and declared, “I wanted to chase the faeries, Sir.”

Jethro’s smile was kind as Tony bounced with the boy, humming with the same excitement at faerie hunting. Tony was faking, but his joy comforted the boy and made him more willing to talk. Jethro nodded to the boy to continue and he bubbled out a haphazard story all about faeries, and how you “have to look for them at night, ‘cause no one’s out scaring them.”

Eventually Tony prodded him along and the boy got to the reason Anthony had brought him to Jethro. “I was out under that maple over there, looking for faerie rings, and I saw a shadow walking through the trees. I got nervous, ‘cause it was too big to be a faerie, so I hid in the nook at the base of the tree.

“The shadow came out from under the trees and he stepped into the moonlight.” Jethro started to get excited. The moon the night before had been full, clear and bright, with plenty of light to see by.

“You saw the man who snuck into the house?” He asked, pulling back on his excitement to not startle the boy.

“I did, Captain. He was  _big_ , and he had black hair, puffy, like, like a bush! And he had a big nose, and a beard, but that wasn’t puffy.”

“How was he dressed?”

“Umm... just like anybody else, Sir. Trousers, a shirt, a little dirty, just like everyone else does at the end of the day. But... he didn’t look tired, Sir. He looked excited.”

Gibbs nodded and asked, “Is there anything else you think I should know, little one?”

The boy fidgeted a bit, nestling into Tony’s warmth and safety, despite the warmth of the day. “His eyes. They looked wrong.” Tony ran a comforting hand through the boy’s hair, strengthening him to finish, “They weren’t a wrong color or anything, they just, they were wrong. They were scary.”

Jethro nodded and thanked the boy, sending him back to his waiting parents. Tony didn’t waste a moment as he stepped to his waiting horse, saying, “I’ll stop by all the settlements and ask the town elders that I trust to not gossip about whether they’ve gotten any reports of a stranger who meets the description, or if any of their citizens match, but I can’t think of anyone.”

Jethro grabbed Tony’s arm before he had the chance to mount, “The only place you’re going is back home.”

Anthony fixed Jethro with the same glare that he had for over a decade, looking at him with exasperated affection that declared his overprotection was noted, appreciated, and about to be ignored. “Jethro, I’m trusted by everyone in the whole ruddy county, they’ll all talk to me, but not to you. And you know that.”

Tony was right, but Jethro was completely unwilling to accept that. He stepped into Tony’s space, forcing him back against the wall of horse behind him. “No.”

Tony just smiled again, giving Jethro the moment he needed to come to terms with Tony being right. Jethro didn’t look kindly on that smirk and pushed into Tony’s space all the harder, trying to make him to back down through sheer force of will.

Jethro had them braced together from ribs to knees and Tony, who would be twitching in panic were he anyone else, started to snicker. “Jethro, people are staring.”

Gibbs blushed and Tony laughed harder. “Ha! You want to bash your fist in the wall, but you can’t, ‘cause you don’t have me backed up against a wall this time, it’s a horse. My favorite horse actually. Did you know that the kids have decided that your next horse gets to be named Achilles, just to match my horse, Hector?”

Jethro fought it, hard, but he couldn’t help but smile at Tony’s impetuousness. “Fine. Go. But take the sheriff with you.”

Tony rolled his eyes and muttered, “Seriously, Cap? I’m more likely to get killed from protecting that idiot than if I was by myself.”

“Don’t care. Still want someone with you to tell me if you get hurt.”

Tony released a long-suffering sigh, “Fine. But as soon as we get this murderer caught, I say we get a new sheriff. This one irritates me.”

Jethro cuffed Tony upside the head and replied, “All law enforcement irritates you.”

Tony raised a finger in protest. “Uh-uh. I know several nearby sheriffs who don’t bother me at all.”

Gibbs stepped back and untied Tony’s horse as he mounted. “And you’re looking to give one of them a better position.”

Tony grinned innocently. “Not at all.”

Jethro snorted as he handed the reins back, “But you know whom you want me to hire.”

“Wouldn’t bring it up if I didn’t.”

Gibbs just rolled his eyes and replied, “We’ll talk about.  _After_.”

Tony smirked again, knowing that Gibbs agreeing to talk was his way of agreeing to cave to whatever Tony wanted. He gleefully snapped to attention and said, “Gotcha, Cap.” He rode off to collect the sheriff as chaperone and conduct his interviews. Jethro spared a moment to watch Tony ride away, and mutter a prayer that the murderer was done for the day.

XXXXXXX

Jethro was pacing... ardently. Were the description for anyone else, the pacing would’ve been angsty, dramatic, or frantic. But because it was Gibbs it was simply  _ardent_.

The moment Captain Gibbs came back without Anthony in tow, every junior servant scattered out of his path, hiding away in a different part of the house. The more time passed, the smaller the number of servants brave enough to go anywhere near his rooms. By the time whole of the day had wasted away and dusk was falling, Dr. Mallard was the only person willing to sit with Jethro, steadying the good Captain with nothing more than his presence.

Several hours ago they’d started a chess game that laid half done on the table between their chairs. Jethro had long since moved on to pacing, leaving Ducky curled up with a book beside the fire. Ducky had only left Jethro alone for a few minutes to gather dinner from the kitchens, knowing full well that no matter how brave Jethro’s cook was, she wasn’t going to dare coming anywhere near him.

By this point in the evening Ducky was slowly making his way through a bowl of soup and nibbling on his toasted bread (comfort food for Jethro from the staff, the most strength they could offer). Ducky calmly watched as Jethro spiraled closer and closer to out of control, knowing that by the time the sun set, neither Jethro’s sister, nor any of her children would be brave enough to stop by the room, though they all had been earlier in the day. Ducky himself would have only until about an hour after full dark before Jethro’s agitation exploded to the point that it was dangerous even for Ducky. He wouldn’t throw things, or resort to his fists, but Jethro had a set of lungs on him like you wouldn’t believe.

Soon, the only person able to come and go with no real concern would be Tony. Yes, there’d still be shouting, but Tony would just grin, hand Jethro a glass of bourbon, flop down on a chair next to the fire, and carry on as though Jethro wasn’t spitting mad. A few minutes of Tony’s jovial calm and Jethro’s concern masquerading as rage would sputter out.

Ducky dropped a lump of sugar in his latest cup of tea and said, “Really Jethro, that is a rather expensive carpet you’re pacing on. Perhaps you could take a break and sit with me for a moment. Or, at least change your route.” Jethro rolled his eyes, but sat down anyway.

The last time Ducky had been foolish enough to have discussion with Jethro about Tony had been just before Tony married Kate. Ever since then, no matter how desperately Ducky wanted to interrogate Jethro about the matter, he kept his questions to himself. Jethro had always been innocently obtuse about the state of emotional entanglement between himself and Tony, and Ducky wasn’t willing to rip Jethro’s world open to make him talk about it.

Ducky had turned his attention to sweet Kate, who knew full well that Anthony, with his non-puritanical upbringing, was in love with Jethro, and though Jethro didn’t understand it, he loved Tony back. He’d raised his concerns to Kate and she just kissed Ducky on the forehead and told him that Tony was a good man, one who would love her three children beyond all reason, and be the sort of support Jethro needed to keep him from killing himself with bravery.

Ducky had wrapped his arms around her and asked her, “But Kate, what about  _you_?”

She had squeezed him back and said, “Tony’s my best friend, Ducky. I buried the man I loved, and the man he loves just can’t see him. We’ve decided that if you can’t have love, you might as well have companionship.” Ducky had plenty of questions about ‘what if Jethro pulls his head out of his arse?’ or ‘what if she finds another man to love?’ but none of them withstood the gentle smile Tony had given her when they were waiting outside the chapel the morning of their wedding.

Kate and Tony were happy with their life together, but Ducky lived in fear that one morning Jethro would wake up and realize that he walked his sister down the aisle to marry the other half of his soul. Should that happen, Ducky didn’t think Jethro would survive it.

As Ducky sat drinking his tea beside Jethro, who sat morosely with his head in his hands, the potential for that realization seemed more and more likely.

The heavy wooden door that blocked Jethro’s rooms from the rest of the house swung open, revealing a slightly travel worn, but still smiling, Tony. Just as Ducky predicted, Tony shirked off his jacket and slung it over a chair by the door, moving straight to the liquor cabinet, rambling all the way. “We  _have_  to get a new sheriff, Cap. Not only is that man incompetent, he’s  _dull_ , which is worse. I can forgive a man who makes me laugh, despite being all manner of useless, but this man can’t even manage to keep up a conversation. And I tried, Cap, I really did! He has a farm, so I talked about crops: nothing. His children are all sweet, if not terribly bright, and I tried talking about them, but I knew more about his family than he did! Honestly, Cap!”

Tony riffled through the cabinet, hunting in the back to find a clean version of the bigger glasses that Jethro preferred for his bourbon. Tony poured a healthy dose of bourbon for Gibbs, and Tony’s own standard two fingers of scotch in one of the tumblers the staff kept easily available near the front of the cabinet in the hope that Gibbs would stop drinking from the large glasses. Tony turned and asked, “Scotch, Doc?” and at the nod he poured another glass. Tony set Ducky’s glass down next to his tea with a grateful smile for looking after Gibbs, and firmly set down Gibbs’s glass with unsaid emphasis that this would be the only glass of the night, no mater how much Jethro wanted another.

“I talked to all the gossip hubs and town leaders throughout the villages, and a few of them reported seeing a guy who matches our description, but none of them have any real information. He was spotted passing through a field outside a village earlier today, and I set up a watch in that village specifically, and have everyone on alert in the others, especially over brown hair and green eyes.”

Ducky chortled to himself and said, “Considering all those gossiping biddies have crushes on you, I can only imagine how distraught they all must’ve been that you were out galloping around.”

Tony laughed, “Oh yes. I got myself quite a few offers to spend the night in their ‘spare bed.’ Sometimes, I wish Kate wasn’t such a good sport about me being the object of fancy to every elderly housewife in the county.”

Tony reached to move Gibbs’s now empty glass, but Gibbs snatched his wrist. “No more bourbon, Cap. Kate’ll know and we’ll both get scolded for drinking too much. And I’m not in the mood to sleep in the stables as punishment.” Gibbs wasn’t paying attention, just staring at his hand wrapped around Tony, holding him in place. “Cap?”

The movement was quick enough that not even Tony’s battle-honed senses could stop Gibbs. It was obvious the Captain was acting on pure instinct in that moment, otherwise the impropriety of pulling Tony into his lap for a hug would’ve overpowered the need to feel Tony breathing beside him. Jethro wrapped his arms around Tony in an almost crushing embrace, reveling in the feel of Tony’s ribs expanding against his arms, sure proof that this wasn’t a dream and no one would be bursting in through his doors to tell him that Tony had been killed while Jethro was safe at home.

The hug was short, just long enough to settle Jethro down, letting him shift his hand slightly to feel Tony’s steady heartbeat beneath his palm, and then releasing Tony to his feet.

Jethro had a perfect sixth sense to prevent people observing him behave with any sort of tenderness. The moment Tony settled himself back to standing with no indication that he’d been nestled in Jethro’s lap a mere breath before, the door burst open and in stormed the children. Tony swept them all into his arms without wasting a beat, perfectly pretending that nothing had just passed between him and Gibbs.

Abigail wrapped her arms around Tony’s neck and refused to let go, clutching her Papa tight. Timothy shifted back and forth from foot to foot until Tony disentangled an arm from Abby to tug Tim to him as well. Now that he had permission, Tim adhered himself to Tony’s side, nodding along with every exclamation by Abby that they’d been so worried about him.

Ziva, ever the pristine eldest, smiled at Tony but moved to Gibbs and deliberately leaned against her uncle’s knee in comfort. Jethro had taken Ziva from a hellish life on the streets of London and brought her back to the safety of his sister’s house. Laws of technicality made Jethro her uncle, but she loved him just as much as she loved Tony. She’d seen far too much of the world for her young years, and knew what flitted between the man who rescued her and her adopted father, even though her hero didn’t see it. She’d had some time to watch the two men relate, watch them get into scrapes, and knew that Jethro’s state of aggressive concern was a permanent fixture in his relationship with Tony. He’d never been comfortable sitting on the sidelines and letting Tony run off and face all the risk for him, but such was the responsibility of the Captain.

The family exchanged their love and goodnights with Jethro, heading off to the rooms set aside for them whenever they spent the night away from home. Gibbs saw all the children off with a hug and a smile, and a brisk handshake to Tony.

Jethro poured himself a full glass of bourbon, closing off as Ducky launched into a long tale about getting himself lost one night in Scotland. The story was nothing but a dull buzz in the background to Gibbs.

But, the complete lack of response, even irritation, was a sign to Ducky that perhaps Jethro wasn’t as clueless about the state of his emotions as everyone took him for.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, so thank you to all the beautiful people who stuck this out with me, I hope you liked it!

Gibbs slammed open the glass door to Abby’s lab, sending it resounding against the wall with a bash that Abby was grateful didn’t turn into a shattering crash. Gibbs was beyond pissed, like angry beyond all reason, and everyone in the building was hiding from him. Except for Tony. Though that wasn’t really because Tony didn’t want to be hiding (he’d been shouted at too many times today to actually  _want_  to be around Gibbs), it was because Gibbs thought they had a serial killer gunning for DiNozzo. And considering the spree of dead men who looked eerily like Tony, along with the taunts the killer kept sending to Gibbs, no one thought Gibbs was wrong.

Tony slinked into the lab behind Gibbs and subtly waived to someone down the hall that it was safe to come out from wherever they’d been hiding when Gibbs stormed past. While Tony was giving the all clear, Gibbs slammed his hand down on Abby’s stereo to stop her ‘Stay Calm, Gibbs Will Make it Better’ playlist (which was actually a whole lot of jazz and acoustic numbers, the sort of thing Gibbs would be thrilled to hear on a day when  _everything_  didn’t annoy him). Gibbs didn’t really turn off the music, he just smacked the machine hard enough to make it skip, which was just enough time for Tony to dash over and remove the cord before Gibbs smashed it against a wall.

Gibbs had ignored Tony running around in his wake all day, missing how Tony picked up the scattered pieces of things and people and set them aside for re-assembly later when Gibbs had come down from hurricane level and didn’t require constant supervision.

Gibbs fixed Abby with a glare and Tony jumped in to translate, “Hey Abbs. Whatcha got?” She gave Tony a grin for his effort, even though she’d totally known what Gibbs was saying anyway, it was still sweet of him to try.

She flinched back and said, “I’ve got nothing for you, Bossman.”

Tony tried to leap in and politely ask for an explanation, but Gibbs was too tightly wound to give him the chance. “What? Abbs you have skin and blood from under #2’s fingernails! You have a damn note! How don’t you have anything for me?”

She caught Tony’s expression, which pled with her to pretend like Gibbs wasn’t going postal and just move on. “Your murderer is male, a little anemic, and not in the system, Gibbs. That’s all I can get you from such a small sample that I don’t have anything to run comparisons with. I’ve already told you that the sign on the floor isn’t some kind of messed up cross—you owe me ten bucks by the way, Tony—it’s an Ankh. Ancient Egyptian hieroglyph for the key of life. Gods and goddesses tended to be shown carrying it around so it’s thought to symbolize eternal life. But all that tells you is that the murderer can work Wikipedia.”

“That’s alright, Abbs.” Tony jumped in. “Thanks for trying. Maybe we’ll find something else for you.”

Gibbs whirled to face down Tony, which had to be the seventeenth time today that Tony had thrown himself on a landmine to protect the rest of the office. “We’ve got one kid drowned, another strangled, a man burned, and hell DiNozzo, we’ve got a guy _crushed_! How are there no forensics from  _crushing_ a guy to death!”

Tony flinched back, dropping his gaze and feigning submission to let Gibbs vent off just enough of his temper in this bought of yelling to keep him from shouting at someone for even  _breathing_ in his presence (though people were already diving out of the room like Gibbs was the boss from _Devil Wears Prada_ ). “Well, Dinozzo?” Gibbs turned back around and was about to lay into Abby when Tony took the suicide route once again.

“Not ‘guys,’” he mumbled.

Gibbs flipped back and demanded, “What!”

Tony drew a deep breath and lifted his gaze, fire in his eyes. “They’re not just  _guys_ , Gibbs. And they weren’t  _kids_. They had names and families.”

Gibbs grumbled and tried to step around Tony to walk out of the room, sufficiently brought back to humanity by Tony’s objection to de-humanizing the victims just so Gibbs could bear the stress of it better.

Tony and his football training snapped back and blocked Gibbs’s way. “Trevor, Greg, Ryan, and James. They had  _names,_  Gibbs. Not numbers!”

Gibbs fixed Tony with a glower and tried to smash past him, but Tony held firm. Abby fought the desire to hide underneath her desk and pretend that Tony hadn’t finally snapped after all these years and was yelling back at Gibbs. She was pretty sure that somewhere in Revelations this moment was mentioned as a sign of the Apocalypse.

Tony tensed up, ready to throw a punch and Gibbs sensed the shift. This wasn’t Tony trying to distract him anymore, this was Tony loosing control himself. Gibbs held up his hands, palms out, in a calming gesture, trying to give Tony a moment to step back and breathe. But Tony wasn’t in the mood for patience anymore. “You know what Gibbs, don’t patronize me!”

“I’m not patronizing you, DiNozzo.”

Tony snorted, “You know, that would be a hell of a lot more believable if you didn’t say it in that tone of voice.”

“ _What_  tone of voice?”

“The same tone you use on over-dramatic women!”

“Well if the shoe fits!”

Tony snapped at the slight, shoving Gibbs back and out of his space. “You know what Gibbs?  _I’m_  the one this bastard seems to be targeting, so I think that maybe it’s time that you let  _me_  be the one to behave like an ass!”

Tony kept pushing at Gibbs while he ranted, forcing him back against Abby’s medical fridge. The moment Gibbs hit the glass with a thump, Tony realized that he’d been shouting like a lunatic at his Boss and panic flicked across his face. Tony desperately tried to backtrack, “Not that you’re an ass, Boss.”

Gibbs just cocked an eyebrow and asked, “Better?”

“Yes, Boss.” Gibbs nodded and stepped past Tony to head for the door, but stopped when Tony didn’t follow and proclaimed to Gibbs’s back, “And you?”

Gibbs turned to glare at Tony, but he stuck out his chin and refused to budge. Gibbs stepped forward and smacked Tony upside the head in response, which was the closest they’d get to Gibbs promising to calm down.

XXXXXXX

Gibbs was summoned up to Vance’s office almost the moment they reached the bullpen, where Gibbs was subjected to yet another lecture something along the lines of, ‘Jethro, I’ve got a son of my own, and I know what it’s like to be protective of them, but that’s no excuse to make the interns cry!’

As usual, Gibbs mentally cringed at being likened to Tony’s father. It happened more often than Gibbs was comfortable with, though every instance made Tony grin. Not because it was a particularly clever comment, but because Tony knew he’d be pounded through the mattress later for the universe’s perceived slight to Gibbs’s stamina.

They’d started their ‘thing’ just after Kate died. Tony would turn up because another warm body in the house held back nightmares of Kate’s blood painting his face, and Gibbs, Gibbs just didn’t throw him out. They started up again after Jeanne, when Tony finally forgave Gibbs for Mexico and lying about his girls, because now he understood that sort of pain. Which was the sort of maturity Gibbs had been waiting for since he snatched Tony from Baltimore.

He’d always known Tony was beautiful, kind-hearted, loyal, and playful, but until Kate died, Tony was still painfully young. Gibbs already had one ex under his belt who had been too young to know that when Gibbs was in, he was all in, and Jethro didn’t think he could stand that loss again.

So, he’d exercised some of that infamous sniper patience and waited for Tony to mature.

And waited.

And waited.

And then, one very ordinary night when they’d been huddled up on the couch watching late night re-runs while Tony quoted every other line, Gibbs had kissed him. And Tony kissed back.

Somewhere along the way Tony’s address had changed to a PO Box, movie nights were moved to Gibbs’s house, the whole team knew without having to be told, and they both went on  _pro forma_  dates with other people so nothing would be different at work. Which meant that today, when Tony was being threatened by a serial killer, the rest of the office just thought Gibbs was being his usual, overprotective self, and not actually terrified for the fate of his lover.

After his meeting, Gibbs spent the afternoon re-interviewing family and friends of all the victims… with Ziva as his backup. McGee sat with Abby in the lab while she ran all the evidence again and he went through every computer trail looking for some link other than the Navy. (Gibbs was convinced that the killer didn’t just pull up the military and JAG databases and spontaneously pick the first guy who looked like Tony. And if that  _was_ all, Gibbs wanted to know how he got access to all these vital records).

And Tony, Tony spent the afternoon ‘looking for connections’ from the safety of his desk.

Under normal circumstances Tony wouldn’t feel like a fool for going over information that they’d already gone over four times, but today it rankled. Tony wasn’t particularly nervous about being the target of a serial killer, Gibbs had gotten him out of worse. No, this was a problem with Gibbs treating him like he was made of glass. Tony was a well trained and highly decorated Federal Agent, Gibbs didn’t need to babysit him. The more time Tony spent going over information they already knew, looking for a connection his gut told him wasn’t there, Tony just got more irritated.

It took him half an hour to talk himself into leaving the office. He started out with the idiotic notion that he should go home to take a shower and a grab change of clothes since he’d long since worn through his stash from the last time Gibbs had let him leave the office. It took Tony a whole five seconds to admit Gibbs would cuff him to his desk for going rogue like that, and though Tony thought that would probably be lots of fun under other circumstances, these weren’t them.

Tony ran through several permutations until he decided he’d go get a cup of coffee. Nothing fancy, and only at the little shop down the road from the Navy Yard, not even the better one around the corner with the barista Gibbs thought was the most talented he’d ever seen. No, he’d never actually leave sight of the NCIS building, for all the fat lot of good it would do him when Gibbs found out he’d left the office.

The security guards in the lobby all sighed and shook their heads when Tony strolled past, but still let him go without signaling Gibbs. The walk outside was nice, and the sun on his face restored most of Tony’s good mood. He ordered coffee from the closest house, flirting outrageously with the blonde who served him, partly to get a bigger size for free, but mainly to so she’d mention it to Gibbs sometime. He ordered his coffee with extra vanilla and hazelnut, so Gibbs would definitely be able to taste it, provided of course, that Gibbs actually let Tony leave the Yard, ‘cause Gibbs refused to kiss Tony anywhere near work.

Tony was feeling so much better after his little dose of freedom that he sat down on a bench and drank in the warm glow of late afternoon, thinking he could spare a few moments away from reality. Of course, the moment Tony tilted his head back to bask in the sun like a cat, he felt the muzzle of a gun tucked into his rib cage.

Tony kept his eyes closed but heaved an irritated sigh, “You know, I really love this spot. It catches the afternoon sun, half the time the cute barista comes out to chat me up, and they’ve got the best croissants outside of France.” The guy standing in Tony’s blind spot chuckled, and Tony finished. “I’m just saying, I would’ve appreciated it if you would’ve picked a different spot for this. ‘Cause next week I’m gonna be here drinking my coffee and I’m gonna be all twitchy because you’ve sullied this spot for me. So, maybe we should start over and try all this at the bus stop over there.”

“Well, Agent DiNozzo, I figure since we’ve started already we might as well press on from here and see if we can’t make this experience a good one. And of course, since you know better than to cause a ruckus on a street filled with innocents while I’ve got a gun, I think this will turn out well for both of us.”

Tony shrugged and stood up, keeping his gaze firmly forward since he knew that’s exactly what the killer wanted, and Tony wasn’t in the mood to irritate a murderer with an escalating penchant for violence. “So, step one: use gun to catch Tony. What’s step two?”

“You and I make our way across the street.” The guy poked Tony a little bit harder, indicating he should move, and Tony quickly took stock of his options. There were no cars coming from either direction, meaning he didn’t have anything to shake the guy with. Out of all the cars parked on the opposite side of the street, there was only one with tinted windows and a back seat big enough to house Tony’s frame, which meant that this guy either planned on cold-cocking Tony in broad daylight or, more likely, dosing him with a needle to the thigh as soon as they got in range.

Tony knew he’d been in clear sight of several street cameras when he sat on the bench, meaning when they finally figured out he was missing McGee would be able to show Gibbs what had happened, and hopefully be able to track the car. Not that Tony was intending to wait for rescue, because with the mood Gibbs was in, there was a distinct possibility Gibbs would let Tony stew in panic for a while, just as payback.

XXXXXXX

The office felt  _off_.

There was no logic to the feeling, no sense, just instinct. Gibbs could feel it the moment he stepped into the elevator, and it only got worse at his clear picture of Tony’s unmuddled desk. Considering Tony’s irritation, that desk should’ve been a melee of coffee cups and half-done paperwork strewn over every spare surface, but it wasn’t. Gibbs drew his phone faster than he could’ve drawn his gun and dialed Ducky. He waited for the first breath of sound on the other end of the line, ignoring whatever words Ducky was actually trying to produce and demanded, “DiNozzo with you?”

“Why no, Jethro—” but the ‘should he be?’ Ducky intended to ask was cut off.

Gibbs started to dial Abby as he stepped towards the elevator, but the young Goth jumped off with McGee in tow. “Gibbs! I’m so sorry! I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out before!”

Gibbs took a moment to realize Abby wasn’t talking about any immediate threat to Tony’s life, and placed his calming hands on her shoulders and demanded, “Abbs! Focus!” At a glare from Gibbs, Ziva ignored the chaotic whirl of Abby and McGee and started tracking Tony’s cell phone.

Abby stopped mid-spew and drew a deep breath to proclaim excitedly, “It’s the five elements, Gibbs!”

Gibbs cocked an eyebrow meant to ask, ‘What’s the five elements, Abbs?’

She dashed past Gibbs and pulled up snapshots of the four murdered men on the bullpen plasma and said, “The five elements in wicca tradition, Bossman! Water, earth, fire, air, and spirit! One drowned, one crushed with rocks—a little medieval for my taste, but I figure the guy didn’t want a second suffocation by burying our vic—one burned, and one suffocated.” Abby whirled around with a triumphant look on her face, pigtails flying every which way as she expected a Caff-Pow in reward.

Gibbs furrowed his brows and stared harder at the screen as Abby rambled on, “Gibbs, this is huge! The wicca community is very tightknit! McGee and I already sent out the sketch to the local coven leaders and they’ll totally know someone hinky who matches our description! And why in the world they might think they’re doing by killing people with the five elements and an Ankh.”

Gibbs glanced past Abby and turned to Ziva for a report, while Abby was completely thrown that Gibbs wasn’t thrilled that they had something directing them to Tony’s hunter. She shot McGee a glance for a hint, but understood when Ziva breathed a sigh of relief and declared, “He’s at the coffee shop down the street, Gibbs.”

Gibbs stormed for the elevator, telling Abby, “Watch that signal and tell me if Tony goes  **anywhere**!” as he went past. Ziva shouted out, “But Gibbs, he’s just getting coffee!” but the churning in Gibbs’s gut wasn’t having it. Tony could be as pissed as he wanted to be at Gibbs for being protective, but Jethro would see to it that Tony lived a long, full, life being mad at him for it.

XXXXXXX

Tony, being Tony, couldn’t help but sass off every step of the way towards the car, figuring that if he was about to get doped, abducted, threatened, rescued, and put under house arrest, all for getting a cup of coffee, he ought to cause as much trouble as possible for the psycho who had made Tony’s week hell. “I just gotta ask, did you have a list of guys you meant to kill, or were you just passing time until you had the chance to get to me? ‘Cause if you wanted me dead, it probably would’ve been easier to kill me first, because Gibbs getting over-protective sort of put a kink in your plans.”

The gunman nudging Tony along gave a snide chuckle, “Jethro didn’t tell you? That explains why you didn’t slip your master’s leash sooner.”

Tony stopped suddenly in the middle of the road, letting the muzzle of the gun jab into his ribs, but the gunman avoided tumbling into Tony and giving him the advantage he needed. “Tell me what?”

“Lets have this conversation in the car, shall we, Tony?”

Tony kept stationary. “Tell. me. what.”

The murderer sighed, “You know, Antony, I’m beginning to understand why Gibbs keeps such close tabs on you. You really can be quite a troublemaker.”

“I’ll make less trouble if you answer the damn question.”

“You’ll also make less trouble if I shoot you. Let’s not forget which one of us has the gun.”

Tony snorted this time and replied, “You’ve got a gun in the middle of a street in clear sight of the Navy Yard. Unless that’s a magical gun that makes you immune to Marine Corp bullets, I think you should answer my question before I start shouting for help.”

The gunman wrapped his hand through the back of Tony’s shirt, wrenching him back and jamming the gun into his already bruised ribs. “You’ll be dead before they reach you.”

With a warped chuckle born from a career of being marked for death, Tony replied, “Then I’ll have you there keeping me company.”

The gunman grumbled, but answered. “I told Gibbs they were just practice for the real thing.”

Tony took two steps forward in compliance for the answered question, but then realization slammed down hard. “You  _bastard_!” Tony hissed. “You’re just trying to piss off Gibbs!”

“No,” the gunman replied with derisive patience. “I’m trying to  _kill_  Gibbs.”

“Why in the hell do it this way? Why not just set up on a roof down the street with a sniper rifle?”

The man gave Tony a shove towards the car and declared, “You don’t understand!”

“Of course I don’t understand! You’re not making any sense! If you want Gibbs dead why threaten me?”

“Because the ritual demands it!”

Tony snorted and whirled around, careful to keep his hands non-threateningly to his sides and asked, “What  _ritual_? What does killing five people get you from Gibbs?”

Tony was playing with fire at this point, baiting a murderer to buy himself time, and hoping the sudden lack of people strolling past on the cleared street meant that Gibbs was on his way. The gunman lifted his gun between Tony’s eyes and shouted, “Gibbs! I mean to get  _Gibbs_  from Gibbs.”

Tony cocked an eyebrow. “You mean like, Gibbs’ soul?”

“More than his soul! His  _essence_ , what does, and what has always made him Jethro. By killing you I’ll break him, and put him in a place where I can take his essence.”

“You want Gibbs’s essence.” Tony flatly replied. “Don’t you get that by having sex with him?”

The gunman furrowed his brow and stared at Tony like  _he_  was the crazy one. “No, no,” Tony shook his finger. “I’m pretty sure that’s how you get essence. I saw it in a movie once. Wait, so does that mean  ** _I_** have Gibbs’ essence? Is that why you grabbed me? But then, how do you get  _his_  essence out of  _me_?”

“Good heavens, do you ever shut up!” The gunman jabbed the gun towards Tony’s face with each word, forcing emphasis, and putting himself in range. The gunman was irate, off balance, with only one hand on his gun, and too close to Tony for common sense, but Tony still took a risk they beat out of you the first week of federal agent school.

Tony grabbed for the gun, ducking out of the way and twisting around to wrap the gunman’s arm around him and put Tony in between the bad guy and the gun. In a move stolen from Tony’s favorite Mossad operative he slammed up on the gunman’s elbow, cracking it up at a breaking angle and pulled the gun loose.

Tony turned to train his gun on the man, but Gibbs got there first. NCIS had subtly cleared the street while their murderer was busy with Tony, then stayed out of sight, waiting for the opportunity to intercede that they knew Tony would give them.

“Hey, Boss.” Tony grinned at Gibbs, and Gibbs  _definitely_ did not smile.

Then, in a move no one was expecting, no matter how close to death Tony may have come, Gibbs swept him into a hug. One arm across Tony’s lower back, pinning him to Gibbs, another wrapped through the hair at the back of Tony’s head. He dropped a quick kiss to Tony’s temple, then with a whisper of ‘”Tony-boy” to his ear, released him, stepping back and issuing orders to the NCIS agents running around the street, making sure the Navy Yard was still secure.

Tony blushed, Ziva laughed, and McGee just handed Tony an NCIS ballcap. Tony tugged the hat on, ignored the shocked sideways glances of the other agents dashing about, and Gibbs-slapped Ziva and Tim with a smile before stepping over to meet the just-arrived Director.

XXXXXXX

Tony woke the next morning around 2 a.m. to the sound of Gibbs calmly stating his name. “DiNozzo.” He said again, and as Tony came back to himself he couldn’t help but think that, of course, Gibbs wouldn’t feel the need to whisper like a normal person when rousing someone in the middle of the night.

“Yeah, Gibbs?” Tony croaked. Gibbs shifted up from his spot on Tony’s chest, where his ear could rest on Tony’s heart, and where he could be sure to feel Tony’s chest expand.

Gibbs pushed himself up to the air above Tony, staring down at him with clear, blue eyes, drinking in the sight of Tony’s tousled hair, sticking out in all directions from Gibbs’s fingers and sweat, then gliding down to Tony’s slightly swollen lips from Gibbs’s aggression, and settling on the bruise Gibbs had made on Tony’s neck, sucking and gnawing at Tony’s pulse point.

When Gibbs didn’t say anything, Tony hazily opened his eyes and asked, “You’re not going to do something stupid like tell me you’re leaving me so psychos don’t plan to kill me to break your spirit and steal your essence are you?”

Gibbs spared a slight grin then simply said, “I love you”

Tony smiled back and said, “I love you too, Gibbs. Now go back to sleep. Some of us stopped a serial killer today and we’d like our rest.”

Gibbs ran his fingers through Tony’s hair and said, “No, Tony.  _I love you._ ”

Being the expert he was in Gibbs translation, Tony knew this meant, ‘I love you, you idiot. Don’t you dare get yourself in that situation again, I can’t take it. I won’t survive losing you too.’ And were Tony both female and a redhead, this would be the moment Gibbs asked him to become Wife #5.

Tony lifted a hand up and traced his fingertips around Gibbs’s face, memorizing the cut of his cheekbones, the arch of his lips, and line of his jaw, then replied with a whisper (as the cinematic import of the moment demanded). “I love you, Jet.”

Gibbs grinned in reply, the boyish, knee-weakening smile that had cost Tony his resolve on more than one occasion. He gave Tony a kiss, a chaste peck, then settled back in to his spot. Tony snorted. “That’s it? That’s the extent of our declarations?” Gibbs shifted against Tony ever so slightly, letting his hand trail down Tony’s chest and settled between Tony’s legs with a wrist flick and a rub.

“Objections?”

“N-nuh-uh... nope. No objections here. Objection-less. No obiezioni.” And as usual, Tony had no problem at all with Gibbs being a man of action rather than speech.


End file.
